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THREE  PLAYS 

SIX  CHARACTERS 
IN  SEARCH  OF  AN  AUTHOR 

HENRY  IV 

RIGHT  you  ARE!  (IF  yOU  THINK  SO) 

By 

LUIGI 

PIRANDELLO 

AWARDED  NOBEL  PRIZE  IN  LITERATURE,  1934 


NEW  YORK 

TTON    & 
PUBLISHERS 


E.    P.    DUTTON    &    CO.,    INC. 


Copyright,  1922, 
By  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Firsi  Printing,  December,   1922 
Second  Printing,  January,   1923 
Third    Printing,   November,    1923 
Fourth   Printing.   June,    192? 
Fifth  Printing,  December,  1925 
Sixth    Printing,    February,    1927 

Seventh   Printing,   June,    1928 
Eighth  Printing,  February,    1929 

Ninth   Printing,  July,  1931 

Tenth  Printing,  December,  1934 

• 

Nobel  Prize  Edition: 

December,  1934 


't,^^>^^,t:ha      '^^'i:]f^^ 


Performance  forbidden  and  rights  of  representation  re- 
served. Application  for  amateur  or  professional  rights  of 
performance  of  any  of  these  plays  must  be  addressed  to  the 
Publishers. 

Attention  is  drawn  to  the  penalties  provided  by  law  for 
any  infringement  of  rights  under  Section  4966,  United  States 
Revised   Statutes,   Title  60,    Chapter    3. 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED 
STATES  OF  AMERICA 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

No  apology  is  necessary  for  offering  to  American  readers 
a  play  which  critics,  with  singular  unanimity,  have  called 
one  of  the  most  original  productions  seen  on  the  modern 
stage.  In  less  than  a  year's  time,  "Six  Characters  in  Search 
of  an  Author"  has  won  a  distinguished  place  in  the  dramatic 
literature  of  the  Western  world,  attracting  audiences  and 
engaging  intellects  far  removed  from  the  particular  influences 
which  made  of  it  a  season's  sensation  in  Italy. 

Yet  the  word  "original"  is  not  enough,  unless  we  embrace 
under  that  characterization  qualities  far  richer  than  those 
normally  credited  to  the  "trick"  play.  The  "Six  Characters" 
is  something  more  than  an  unusually  ingenious  variation  of 
the  "play  within  a  play."  It  is  something  more  than  a  new 
twist  given  to  the  "dream  character"  made  familiar  by  the 
contemporary  Italian  grotesques.  It  is  a  dramatization  of 
the  artistic  process  itself,  in  relation  to  the  problem  of  reality 
and  unreality,  which  has  engaged  Pirandello  in  one  way  or 
another  for  more  than  twenty  years. 

I  venture  to  insist  upon  this  point  as  against  those  observ- 
ers who  have  tried  to  see  in  the  "Six  Characters"  an  ironical 
satire  of  the  commercial  drama,  as  we  know  it  today,  mixed, 
more  or  less  artificially,  with  a  rather  obvious  philosophy  of 
neo-idealism.  No  such  mixture  exists.  The  blend  is  organic. 
The  object  of  Pirandello's  bitter  irony  is  not  the  stage-mana- 
ger, nor  the  theatrical  producer,  nor  even  the  dramatic  critic : 
it  is  the  dramatist;  it  is  the  artist;  it  is,  in  the  end,  life  itself. 

I  suppose  the  human  soul  presents  no  mysteries  to  those 

V 

M49480 


^ 


vi  PREFATORY   NOTE 

who  have  been  thoroughly  grounded  in  the  science  of  Freud. 
But  in  spite  of  psycho-analysis  a  few  Hamlets  still  survive. 
Pirandello  is  one  of  them. 

\yhat  are  people  really  like?  In  the  business  of  every- 
day life,  nothing  is  commoner  than  the  categorical  judgment 
sweeping  and  assured  in  its  affirmatives.  But  as  we  cut  a 
little  deeply  into  the  living  matter  of  the  spirit,  the  problem 
becomes  more  complicated.  Do  we  ever  understand  the 
whole  motivation  of  an  action — not  in  others  only  but  even 
in  ourselves? 

Oh,  yes,  there  are  people  who  know.  .  .  .  The  State 
knows,  with  its  laws  and  its  procedures.  And  society  knows, 
with  its  conventions.  And  individuals  know,  with  their 
formulas  for  conduct  often  cannily  applied  with  reference 
to  interest. — ^The  ironical  element,  as  everyone  has  noted,  is 
fundamental  in  Pirandello! 

Apart  from  works  in  his  earlier  manner  (realistic  pic- 
tures from  Southern  Italian  life,  including  such  gems  as 
^'Sicilian  Limes"),  Pirandello's  most  distinctive  productions 
have  dealt  with  this  general  theme.  No  one  of  them,  indeed, 
exhausts  it.  And  how  could  this  be  otherwise?  Pirandello, 
approaching  the  sixties,  to  be  sure,  is  nevertheless  in  spirit  a 
man  of  the  younger  Italian  generation,  which,  trained  by 
Croce  and  Gentile,  has  "learned  how  to  think."  But  how- 
ever great  his  delight  in  playing  with  "actual  idealism,"  he 
knows  the  difference  between  a  drama  and  a  philosophical 
dissertation.  His  plays  are  situations  embodying  conclusions, 
simple,  or  indeed  "obvious"  in  their  convincingness.  They 
m.ust  be  taken  as  a  whole — if  one  would  look  for  a  full  state- 
ment of  Pirandello's  "thought." 

A  "thought,"  moreover,  which  may  or  may  not  invite  us 
to  profound  reflection.  Enough  for  the  lover  of  the  theatre 
is  the  fact  that  Pirandello  derives  the  most  interesting  dra- 
matic possibilities  from  it.     Sometimes  it   is   the   "reality" 


PREFATORY   NOTE  vii 

which  society  sees  brought  into  contrast  with  the  reality 
which  action  proves  (//  piacere  dell'onesta) .  Again,  it  is 
the  "reality"  which  a  man  sees  in  himself  thwarted  by  the 
reality  which  actually  controls  C'Ma  non  e  una  cosa  seria"). 
In  "Right  You  Are"  (Cost  e,  se  vi  pare)  we  have  a  general 
satire  of  the  "cocksure,"  who,  placed  in  the  presence  of  real- 
ity and  unreality,  are  unable  to  distinguish  one  from  the 
other. 

In  the  "Six  Characters"  it  is  the  turn  of  the  artist.  Can 
art — creative  art,  where  the  spirit  would  seem  most  autono- 
mous— itself  determine  reality?  No,  because  once  "a  char- 
acter is  born,  he  acquires  such  an  independence,  even  of 
his  own  author,  that  he  can  be  imagined  by  everybody  in 
situations  where  the  author  never  dreamed  of  placing  him, 
and  so  acquires  a  meaning  which  the  author  never  thought 
of  giving  him,"  In  this  lies  the  great  originality  of  this  very 
original  play — the  discovery  (so  Italian,  when  one  thinks  of 
it,  and  so  novel,  as  one  compares  it  with  the  traditional  role 
of  the  "artist"  in  the  European  play)  that  the  laborious  effort 
of  artistic  creation  is  itself  a  dramatic  theme — so  unruly,  so 
assertive,  is  this  thing  called  "life"  ever  rising  to  harass  and 
defeat  anyone  who  would  interpret,  crystalh'ze,  devitalize  it. 

And  beyond  the  drama  lies  the  poetry,  a  poetry  oT  mys- 
terious symbolism  made  up  of  terror,  and  rebellion,  anH  pity, 
and  human  kindliness.  Let  us  not  miss  the  latter,  especially, 
in  the  complex  mood  of  all  Pirandello's  theatre. 


The  three  plays  of  Pirandello,  here  offered  in  translations 
that  do  not  hope  to  be  adequate,  are  famous  specimens  of  the 
"new"  theatre  in  Italy.  The  term  "new"  is  much  contested, 
not  only  in  Italy  but  abroad.  In  using  the  word  here  it  is 
not  necessary  to  claim  that  this  young,  impulsive,  fascinat- 
ingly boisterous  after-the-war  Italy  is  doing  things  that  no 


vui  PREFATORY   NOTE 

one  else  ever  thought  of  doing.  We  remain  on  safe  ground 
if  we  assert  that  Pirandello  and  his  associates  have  broken  the 
bounds  set  to  the  old  fashioned  "sentimental"  Latin  play. 

The  motivations  of  the  "old"  theatre  were  largely  ethical 
in  character,  developing  spiritual  crises  from  the  conflict  of 
impulses  with  a  rigid  framework  of  law  and  convention. 
Dramatic  art  was,  so  to  speak,  a  department  of  geometry, 
dealing  with  this  or  that  projection  or  modification  of  the 
triangle.  Husbands  tearing  their  hair  as  wives  proved  un- 
faithful; disappointed  lovers  pining  in  eternal  fidelity  to 
mates  beyond  their  social  sphere;  cuckolds  heroically  sheath- 
ing the  stiletto  in  deference  to  a  higher  law  of  respectability ; 
widows  sending  second-hand  aspirants  to  suicide  that  the  sac- 
rament of  marriage  might  remain  inviolate: — such  were  the 
themes. 

And  there  is  no  doubt,  besides,  that  this  "old"  theatre  pro- 
duced works  of  great  beauty  and  intenseness;  since  the  will 
in  conflict  with  impulse  and  triumphing  over  impulse  always 
presents  a  subject  entrancing  in  human  interest  and  noble  in 
moral  implications. 

But  the  potentialities  of  drama  are  more  numerous  than 
the  permutations  of  three.  The  "new"  theatre  in  Italy  Is 
"new"  in  this  discovery  at  least. 


"  'Henry  IV.,'  "  an  equally  strong  and  original  variation 
of  the  insanity  motive,  is  the  first  of  two  plays  by  Pirandello 
dealing  with  a  special  aspect  of  the  problem  of  reality  and 
unreality.  The  second,  not  yet  given  to  the  public,  is  Vestire 
gli  ingnudi  (".  .  .  And  ye  clothed  me!").  In  the  former 
Pirandello  studies  a  situation  where  an  individual  finds  a 
.world  of  unreality  thrust  upon  him,  voluntarily  reassuming 
it  later  on,  when  tragedy  springs  from  the  deeper  reality. 
In  "And  ye  clothed  me!"  we  have  a  girl  who,   to  fill  an 


PREFATORY   NOTE  ix 

o*mpty  life  of  no  importance,  creates  a  fiction  for  herself,  only 
to  find  it  torn  violently  from  her  and  to  be  left  in  a  naked 
reality  that  is,  after  all,  so  unreal. 

These  two  plays  indicate  the  present  tendency  of  Piran- 
dello's rapid  production — a  tendency  that  promises  even 
richer  results  as  this  interesting  author  delves  more  exten- 
sively into  the  mysteries  of  individual  psychology. 

''  'Henry  IV.,'  "  meanwhile,  is  before  us.    It  can  speak  for 

itself. 

*       *       *       * 

All  of  Pirandello's  plays  are  built  for  acting,  and  only 
incidentally  for  reading.  We  make  this  observation  with 
"Right  You  Are"  especially  in  mind,  since  that  play,  above 
all,  is  a  test  for  the  actor.  It  is  typical  of  Pirandello  for  its 
rapidity,  its  harshness  and  its  violence — the  skill  with  which 
the  tense  tableau  is  drawn  out  of  pure  dialectic,  pure  "con- 
versation."  Moreover,  it  states  a  fundamental  preoccupa- 
tion of  Pirandello  in  peculiarly  lucid  and  striking  fashion. 
Perhaps  a  better  rendering  of  the  title  Cosi  e  (se  vi  pare) 
will  occur  to  many.  Ludwig  Lewisohn  (happily,  I  thought) 
suggested  "As  You  Like  It,"  no  less.  A  possibility,  quite  in 
the  spirit  of  Pirandello's  title  in  general,  would  have  been 
another  Shakespearean  reminiscence:  ".  .  .  and  Thinking 
Makes  It  So."  We  have  kept  something  approximating  the 
literal,  which  would  be:  "So  it  is  (if  you  think  so)." 

The  text  of  the  "Six  Characters"  is  that  of  the  translation 
designated  by  the  author  and  which  was  used  in  the  sensa- 
tional productions  of  the  play  given  in  London  and  New 
York. 

A.  L. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Prefatory  Note v 

Six   Characters  in   Search   of  an  Author  —  A 

Comedy  in  the  Making 1 

"Henry  IV." 73 

Right  You  Are  (If  You  Think  So!)     ....   149 


THREE    PLAYS 


SIX   CHARACTERS   IN   SEARCH   OF 
AN   AUTHOR 

(Set  personaggi  in  cerca  d'autore) 
A   COMEDY    IN   THE   MAKING 

BY 

LUIGI    PIRANDELLO 

translated  by 
Edward  Storer 


CHARACTERS    OF   THE    COMEDY   IN   THE 
MAKING: 

THE  FATHER.  THE  MOTHER.  THE  STEP-DAUGHTER.  THE 
SON.  THE  BOY.  THE  CHILD.  {The  last  tWQ  do  not 
Speak.)      MADAME  PACE. 

ACTORS    OF   THE    COMPANY 

THE  MANAGER.  LEADING  LADY.  LEADING  MAN.  SECOND 
LADY.  LEAD.  l'iNGENUE.  JUVENILE  LEAD.  OTHER 
ACTORS  AND  ACTRESSES.  PROPERTY  MAN.  PROMPTER. 
machinist.        manager's    secretary.       DOOR-KEEPER. 

scene-shifters. 

Daytime.    The  Stage  of  a  Theatre. 


SIX   CHARACTERS   IN   SEARCH   OF 
AN   AUTHOR 

A   COMEDY    IN    THE    MAKING 

ACT   I. 

N.  B.  The  Comedy  is  without  acts  or  scenes.  The  per- 
formance is  interrupted  once,  without  the  curtain  being 
lowered,  when  the  manager  and  the  chief  characters  with- 
draw to  arrange  the  scenario.  A  second  interruption  of  the 
action  takes  place  when,  by  mistake,  the  stage  hands  let  the 
curtain  down. 

The  spectators  will  find  the  curtain  raised  and  the  stage  as 
it  usually  is  during  the  day  time.  It  will  be  half  dark,  and 
empty,  so  that  from  the  beginning  the  public  may  have  the 
impression  of  an  impromptu  performance. 

Prompter  s  box  and  a  small  table  and  chair  for  the 
manager. 

Two  other  small  tables  and  several  chairs  scattered  about 
as  during  rehearsals. 

The  actors  and  actresses  of  the  company  enter  from  the 
back  of  the  stage: 

first  one,  then  another,  then  two  together:  nine  or  ten  in  all. 
They  are  about  to  rehearse  a  Pirandello  play:  Mixing  It  Up. 
Some  of  the  company  move  off  towards  their  dressing  rooms. 
The  prompter  who  has  the  "book"  under  his  arm,  is  waiting 
for  the  manager  in  order  to  begin  the  rehearsal. 

The  actors  and  actresses,  some  standing,  some  sitting,  chat 
and  smoke.  One  perhaps  reads  a  paper;  another  cons 
his  part, 

3 


SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

Finellyj  the  Manager  enters  and  goes  to  the  table  prepared 
for  him.  His  secretary  brings  him  his  mail,  through  which  he 
glances.  The  prompter  takes  his  seat,  turns  on  a  light,  and 
opens  the  "book." 

The  Manager  {throwing  a  letter  down  on  the  table), 
I  can't  see  {to  Property  Man).  Let's  have  a  little  light, 
please ! 

Property  Man.  Yes  sir,  yes,  at  once  {a  light  comes 
down  on  to  the  stage). 

The  Manager  {clapping  his  hands).  Come  along! 
Come  along!    Second  act  of  "Mixing  it  Up"  {sits  down). 

{The  actors  and  actresses  go  from  the  front  of  the  stdge 
to  the  wings,  all  except  the  three  who  are  to  begin  the 
rehearsal) . 

The  Prompter  {reading  the  "book").  "Leo  Gala's 
house.    A  curious  room  serving  as  dining-room  and  study." 

The  Manager  {to  Property  Man).  Fix  up  the  old 
red  room. 

Property  Man  {noting  it  down).    Red  set.    All  right! 

The  Prompter  {continuing  to  read  from  the  "book"). 
"Table  already  laid  and  v^riting  desk  w^ith  books  and  papers. 
Book-shelves.  Exit  rear  to  Leo's  bedroom.  Exit  left  to 
kitchen.    Principal  exit  to  right." 

The  Manager  {energetically) .  Well,  you  understand: 
The  principal  exit  over  there;  here,  the  kitchen.  {Turning 
to  actor  who  is  to  play  the  part  of  Socrates).  You  make 
your  entrances  and  exits  here.  {To  Property  Man)  The 
baize  doors  at  the  rear,  and  curtains. 

Property  Man  {noting  it  down).     Right  oh! 

Prompter  {reading  as  before).  "When  the  curtain  rises, 
Leo  Gala,  dressed  in  cook's  cap  and  apron  is  busy  beating  an 
egg  in  a  cup.  Philip,  also  dressed  as  a  cook,  is  beating  an- 
other egg.     Guido  Venanzi  is  seated  and  listening." 


[Act  I]  SIX    CHARACTERS  5 

Leading  Man  (to  manager).  Excuse  mc,  but  must  I 
absolutely  wear  a  cook's  cap? 

The  Manager  (annoyed).  I  imagine  so.  It  says  so 
there  anyway  (pointing  to  the  "book''). 

Leading  Man.     But  it's  ridiculous! 

The  Manager  (jumping  up  in  a  rage).  Ridiculous? 
Ridiculous?  Is  it  my  fault  if  France  won't  send  us  any  more 
good  comedies,  and  we  are  reduced  to  putting  on  Pirandello's 
works,  where  nobody  understands  anything,  and  where  the 
author  plays  the  fool  with  us  all?  (The  actors  grin.  The 
Manager  goes  to  Leading  Man  and  shouts).  Yes  sir,  you 
put  on  the  cook's  cap  and  beat  eggs.  Do  you  suppose  that 
with  all  this  egg-beating  business  you  are  on  an  ordinary 
stage?  Get  that  out  of  your  head.  You  represent  the  shell 
of  the  eggs  you  are  beating!  (Laughter  and  comments 
among  the  actors).  Silence!  and  listen  to  my  explanations, 
please!  (To  Leading  Man):  "The  empty  form  of  reason 
without  the  fullness  of  instinct,  which  is  blind." — You  stand 
for  reason,  your  wife  is  instinct.  It's  a  mixing  up  of  the 
parts,  according  to  which  you  who  act  your  own  part  become 
the  puppet  of  yourself.     Do  you  understand? 

Leading  Man.    I'm  hanged  if  I  do. 

The  Manager.  Neither  do  I.  But  let's  get  on  with  it. 
It's  sure  to  be  a  glorious  failure  anyway.  (Confidentially)  : 
But  I  say,  please  face  three-quarters.  Otherwise,  what  with 
the  abstruseness  of  the  dialogue,  and  the  public  that  won't 
be  able  to  hear  you,  the  whole  thing  will  go  to  hell.  Come 
on !  come  on ! 

Prompter.  Pardon  sir,  may  I  get  into  my  box  ?  There's 
a  bit  of  a  draught. 

The  Manager.    Yes,  yes,  of  course! 

At  this  point,  the  door-keeper  has  entered  from  the  stage 


6  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

door  and  advances  towards  the  manager  s  table,  taking  off  his 
braided  cap.  During  this  manoeuvre,  the  Six  Characters 
enter,  and  stop  by  the  door  at  back  of  stage,  so  that  when  the 
door-keeper  is  about  to  announce  their  coming  to  the  Man- 
ager, they  are  already  on  the  stage.  A  tenuous  light  surrounds 
them,  almost  as  if  irradiated  by  them — the  faint  breath  of 
their  fantastic  reality. 

This  light  will  disappear  when  they  come  forward  towards 
the  actors.  They  preserve,  however,  something  of  the  dream 
lightness  in  which  they  seem  almost  suspended;  but  this  does 
not  detract  from  the  essential  reality  of  their  forms  and  ex- 
pressions. 

He  who  is  known  as  The  Father  is  a  man  of  about  50; 
hair,  reddish  in  colour,  thin  at  the  temples;  he  is  not  bald, 
however;  thick  moustaches,  falling  over  his  still  fresh  mouth, 
which  often  opens  in  an  empty  and  uncertain  smile.  He  is 
fattish,  pale;  with  an  especially  wide  forehead.  He  has  blue, 
oval-shaped  eyes,  very  clear  and  piercing.  Wears  light 
trousers  and  a  dark  jacket.  He  is  alternatively  mellifluous 
and  violent  in  his  manner. 

The  Mother  seems  crushed  and  terrified  as  if  by  an  in- 
tolerable weight  of  shame  and  abasement.  She  is  dressed  in 
modest  black  and  wears  a  thick  widow's  veil  of  crepe.  When 
she  lifts  this,  she  reveals  a  wax-like  face.  She  always  keeps 
her  eyes  downcast. 

The  Step-Daughter,  is  dashing,  almost  impudent, 
beautiful.  She  wears  mourning  too,  but  with  great  elegance. 
She  shows  contempt  for  the  timid  half-frightened  manner  of 
the  vjretched  BoY  (14  years  old,  and  also  dressed  in  black)  ; 
on  the  other  hand,  she  displays  a  lively  tenderness  for  her 
little  sister.  The  Child  {about  four),  who  is  dressed  in 
white,  with  a  black  silk  sash  at  the  waist. 

The  Son  (22)  tall,  severe  in  his  attitude  of  contempt  for 


[Act  I]  SIX   CHARACTERS  7 

The  Father,  supercilious  and  indifferent  to  the  Mother, 
He  looks  as  if  he  had  come  on  the  stage  against  his  will. 

Door-keeper  {cap  in  hand).    Excuse  me,  sir  .  .  . 

The  Manager  {rudely).    Eh?    What  is  it? 

Door-keeper  {timidly).  These  people  are  asking  for 
you,  sir. 

The  Manager  {furioui).  I  am  rehearsing,  and  you 
know  perfectly  well  no  one's  allowed  to  come  in  during  re- 
hearsals! {Turning  to  the  Characters):  Who  are  you, 
please  ?    What  do  you  want  ? 

The  Father  {coming  forward  a  little,  followed  by  the 
others  who  seem  embarrassed).  As  a  matter  of  fact  .  .  . 
we  have  come  here  in  search  of  an  author  .  .  . 

The  Manager  {half  angry,  half  am.azed).  An  author? 
What  author? 

The  Father.    Any  author,  sir. 

The  Manager.  But  there's  no  author  here.  We  are 
not  rehearsing  a  new  piece. 

The  Step-Daughter  {vivaciously) .  So  much  the  better, 
so  much  the  better!    We  can  be  your  new  piece. 

An  Actor  {coming  forward  from  the  others).  Oh,  do 
you  hear  that  ? 

The  Father  {to  Step-Daughter).  Yes,  but  if  the  author 
isn't  here  .  .  .{To  Manager)  .  .  .  unless  you  would  be 
willing  .  .  . 

The  Manager.    You  are  trj^ing  to  be  funny. 

The  Father.  No,  for  Heaven's  sake,  what  are  you  say- 
ing?   We  bring  you  a  drama,  sir. 

The  Step-Daughter.    We  may  be  your  fortune. 

The  Manager.  Will  you  oblige  me  by  going  away?  Wc 
haven't  time  to  waste  with  mad  people. 

The  Father  {mellifluously).  Oh  sir,  you  know  well 
that   life   is    full    of    infinite    absurdities,    which,    strangely 


8  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

enough,  do  not  even  need  to  appear  plausible,  since  they  are 
true. 

The  Manager.    What  the  devil  is  he  talking  about? 

The  Father.  I  say  that  to  reverse  the  ordinary  process 
may  well  be  considered  a  madness:  that  is,  to  create  credible 
situations,  in  order  that  they  may  appear  true.  But  permit 
me  to  observe  that  if  this  be  madness,  it  is  the  sole  raison 
d'etre  of  your  profession,  gentlemen.  ( The  actors  look  hurt 
and  preplexed) . 

The  Manager  {getting  up  and  looking  at  him).  So  our 
profession  seems  to  you  one  worthy  of  madmen  then? 

The  Father.  Well,  to  make  seem  true  that  which  isn't 
true  .  .  .  without  any  need  .  .  .  for  a  joke  as  it  w^re  .  .  . 
Isn't  that  your  mission,  gentlemen:  to  give  life  to  fantastic 
characters  on  the  stage  ? 

The  Manager  (interpreting  the  rising  anger  of  the 
Company).  But  I  would  beg  you  to  believe,  my  dear  sir, 
that  the  profession  of  the  comedian  is  a  noble  one.  If  today, 
as  things  go,  the  playwrights  give  us  stupid  comedies  to  play 
and  puppets  to  represent  instead  of  men,  remember  we  are 
proud  to  have  given  life  to  immortal  works  here  on  these 
very  boards!  {The  actors,  satisfied,  applaud  their  Manager), 

The  Father  {interrupting  furiously).  Exactly,  per- 
fectly, to  living  beings  more  alive  than  those  who  breath.e 
and  wear  clothes:  beings  less  real  perhaps,  but  truer!  I 
agree  with  you  entirely.  {The  actors  look  at  one  another 
in  amazement). 

The  Manager.  But  what  do  you  mean?  Before,  you 
said  ... 

The  Father.  No,  excuse  me,  I  meant  it  for  you,  sir, 
who  were  crying  out  that  you  had  no  time  to  lose  with  mad- 
men, while  no  one  better  than  yourself  knows  that  nature 
uses  the  instrument  of  human  fantasy  in  order  to  pursue  her 
high  creative  purpose. 


[Act  I]  SIX    CHARACTERS  9 

The  Manager.  Very  well, — but  where  does  all  this  take 
us? 

The  Father.  Nowhere!  It  is  merely  to  show  you  that 
one  is  born  to  life  in  many  forms,  in  many  shapes,  as  tree, 
or  as  stone,  as  water,  as  butterfly,  or  as  woman.  So  one 
may  also  be  born  a  character  in  a  play. 

The  Manager  (with  feigned  comic  dismay).  So  you 
and  these  other  friends  of  yours  have  been  born  characters? 

The  Father.  Exactly,  and  alive  as  you  see!  {Manager 
and  actors  burst  out  laughing). 

The  Father  {hurt).  I  am  sorry  you  laugh,  because  we 
carry  in  us  a  drama,  as  you  can  guess  from  this  woman  here 
veiled  in  black. 

The  Manager  {losing  patience  at  last  and  almost  in- 
dignant). Oh,  chuck  it!  Get  away  please!  Clear  out  of 
here!  {to  Property  Man).  For  Heaven's  sake,  turn  them 
out! 

The  Father  {resisting).    No,  no,  look  here,  we  .  ,  . 

The  Manager  {roaring).  We  come  here  to  work,  you 
know. 

Leading  Actor.  One  cannot  let  oneself  be  made  such  a 
fool  of. 

The  Father  {determined,  coming  forward).  I  marvel 
at  your  incredulity,  gentlemen.  Are  you  not  accustomed  to 
see  the  characters  created  by  an  author  spring  to  life  in 
yourselves  and  face  each  other?  Just  because  there  is  no 
^'book"  {pointing  to  the  Prompter  s  box)  which  contains  us, 
you  refuse  to  believe  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter  {advances  towards  Manager,  smil- 
ing and  coquettish).  Believe  me,  we  are  really  six  most 
interesting  characters,  sir;  side-tracked  however. 

The  Father.  Yes,  that  is  the  word!  {To  Manager  all 
at  once)  :  In  the  sense,  that  is,  that  the  author  who  created 
us  alive  no  longer  wished,  or  was  no  longer  able,  materially 


10  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

to  put  us  Into  a  work  of  art.  And  this  was  a  real  crime, 
sir ;  because  he  who  has  had  the  luck  to  be  born  a  character 
can  laugh  even  at  death.  He  cannot  die.  The  man,  the 
writer,  the  instrument  of  the  creation  will  die,  but  his  crea- 
tion does  not  die.  And  to  live  for  ever,  it  does  not  need  to 
liave  extraordinary  gifts  or  to  be  able  to  work  wonders. 
Who  was  Sancho  Panza?  Who  was  Don  Abbondio?  Yet 
they  live  eternally  because — live  germs  as  they  were — they 
had  the  fortune  to  find  a  fecundating  matrix,  a  fantasy 
which  could  raise  and  nourish  them:  make  them  live  for 
ever! 

The  Manager.  That  is  quite  all  right.  But  what  do 
you  want  here,  all  of  you  ? 

The  Father.    We  want  to  live. 

The  Manager  (ironically).     For  Eternity? 

The  Father.     No,  sir,  only  for  a  moment  ...  in  you. 

An  Actor.     Just  listen  to  him! 
Reading  Lady.    They  want  to  live,  in  us  .  .  .    I 

Juvenile  Lead  {pointing  to  the  Step-Daughter).  I've 
no  objection,  as  far  as  that  one  is  concerned! 

The  Father.  Look  here!  look  here!  The  comedy  ha? 
to  be  made.  {To  the  Manager)  :  But  if  yoxi  and  your  actors 
are  willing,  we  can  soon  concert  it  among  ourselves. 

The  Manager  {annoyed).  But  w^hat  do  you  want  to 
concert?  We  don't  go  in  for  concerts  here.  Here  we  play 
dramas  and  comedies! 

The  Father.  Exactly!  That  is  just  why  we  have  come 
to  you. 

The  Manager.    And  where  is  the  "book"? 

The  Father.  It  is  in  us!  {The  actors  laugh).  The 
drama  is  in  us,  and  we  are  the  drama.  We  are  impatient 
to  play  it.     Our  inner  passion  drives  us  on  to  this. 

The  Step-Daughter  {disdainful,  alluring,  treacherous, 
full   of   impudence).      My   passion,   sir!      Ah,    If   you   only 


[Act  I]  SIX    CHARACTERS  11 

knew!  My  passion  for  him!  (Points  to  the  Father  and 
makes  a  pretence  of  embracing  him.  Then  she  breaks  out 
into  a  loud  laugh). 

The  Father  {angrily).  Behave  yourself!  And  please 
don't  laugh  in  that  fashion. 

The  Step-Daughter.  With  your  permission,  gentle- 
men, I,  who  am  a  two  months'  orphan,  will  show  you  how  I 
can  dance  and  sing. 

(Sings  and  then  dances  Prenez  garde  a  Tchou-Thin- 
Tchou ) . 

Les  chinois  sont  un  peuple  malin, 
De  Shangai  a  Pekin, 
lis  ont  mis  des  ecriteux  partout: 
Prenez  garde  a  Tchou-Thin-Tchou. 

Actors  and  Actresses.    Bravo!  Well  done!    Tip-top! 

The  Manager.  Silence!  This  isn't  a  cafe  concert,  you 
know!  (Turning  to  the  Father  in  consternation)  :  Is  she 
mad? 

The  Father.     Mad  ?  No,  she's  worse  than  mad.  ^ 

The  Step-Daughter  (to  Manager).  Worse?  Worse?  ^ 
Listen!  Stage  this  drama  for  us  at  once!  Then  you  will 
see  that  at  a  certain  moment  I  .  .  .  when  this  little  darling 
here  .  .  .  ( Takes  the  Child  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  to 
the  Manager)  :  Isn't  she  a  dear?  (Takes  her  up  and  kisses 
her).  Darling!  Darling!  (Puts  her  down  again  and  adds 
feelingly)  :  Well,  when  God  suddenly  takes  this  dear  little 
child  away  from  that  poor  mother  there;  and  this  imbecile 
here  (seizing  hold  of  the  Boy  roughly  and  pushing  him  for- 
ward) does  the  stupidest  things,  like  the  fool  he  is,  you  will 
see  me  run  away.  Yes,  gentleman,  I  shall  be  off.  But  the 
moment  hasn't  arrived  yet.  After  what  has  taken  place 
between  him  and  me  (indicates  the  Father  with  a  horrible 
wink),  I  can't  remain  any  longer  in  this  society,  to  have  to 


12  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

witness  the  anguish  of  this  mother  here  for  that  fool  .  .  . 
{indicates  the  Son).  Look  at  him!  Look  at  him!  See  how 
indifferent,  how  frigid  he  is,  because  he  is  the  legitimate  son. 
He  despises  me,  despises  him  (pointing  to  the  Boy),  despises 
this  baby  here;  because  .  .  .  we  are  bastards  (goes  to  the 
Mother  and  embraces  her).  And  he  doesn't  want  to  recog- 
nize her  as  his  mother — she  who  is  the  common  mother  of 
us  all.  He  looks  down  upon  her  as  if  she  were  only  the 
mother  of  us  three  bastards.  Wretch!  {She  says  all  this 
very  rapidly j  excitedly.  At  the  word  ''bastards''  she  raises 
her  voice,  and  almost  spits  out  the  final  ''Wretch!'')  . 

The  Mother  {to  the  Manager,  in  anguish).  In  the 
name  of  these  two  little  children,  I  beg  you  .  .  .  {She  grows 
faint  and  is  about  to  fall).     Oh  God! 

The  Father  {coming  forward  to  support  her  as  do  some 
of  the  actors).    Quick  a  chair,  a  chair  for  this  poor  widow! 

The  Actors.    Is  it  true?    Has  she  really  fainted ? 

The  Manager.    Quick,  a  chair !    Here ! 

{One  of  the  actors  brings  a  chair,  the  others  proffer  assist- 
ance. The  Mother  tries  to  prevent  the  Father  from  lifting 
the  veil  ivhich  covers  her  face). 

The  Father.    Look  at  her!    Look  at  her! 

The  Mother.    No,  no;  stop  it  please! 

The  Father  {raising  her  veil).     Let  them  see  you! 

The  Mother  {rising  and  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  in  desperation) .  I  beg  you,  sir,  to  prevent  this  man 
from  carrying  out  his  plan  which  is  loathsome  to  me. 

The  Manager  {dumbfounded).  I  don't  understand  at 
all.  What  is  the  situation?  Is  this  lady  your  wife?  {to  the 
Father). 

The  Father.    Yes,  gentlemen:  my  wife! 

The  Manager.  But  how  can  she  be  a  widow  if  you  are 
alive?  {The  actors  find  relief  for  their  astonishment  in  a 
loud  laugh). 


[Act  I]  SIX    CHARACTERS  13 

The  Father.  Don't  laugh!  Don't  laugh  like  that,  for 
Heaven's  sake.  Her  drama  lies  just  here  in  this:  she  has  had 
a  lover,  a  man  who  ought  to  be  here. 

The  Mother  {with  a  cry).    No!    No! 

The  Step-Daughter.  Fortunately  for  her,  he  is  dead. 
Tw^o  months  ago  as  I  said.  We  are  in  mourning,  as  you 
see. 

The  Father.  He  isn't  here  you  see,  not  because  he  is 
dead.  He  isn't  here — look  at  her  a  moment  and  you  will 
understand — because  her  drama  isn't  a  drama  of  the  love  of 
two  men  for  w^hom  she  was  incapable  of  feeling  anything 
except  possibly  a  little  gratitude — gratitude  not  for  me  but 
for  the  other.  She  isn't  a  woman,  she  is  a  mother,  and  her 
drama — powerful  sir,  I  assure  you — lies,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
all  in  these  four  children  she  has  had  by  two  men. 

The  Mother.  I  had  them?  Have  you  got  the  courage 
to  say  that  I  w^anted  them?  {To  the  company).  It  was  his 
doing.  It  was  he  who  gave  me  that  other  man,  who  forced 
me  to  go  away  with  him. 

The  Step-Daughter.    It  isn't  true. 

The  Mother  {startled).     Not  true,  isn't  it? 

The  Step-Daughter.  No,  it  isn't  true,  it  just  isn't 
true. 

The  Mother.    And  what  can  you  know  about  it? 

The  Step-Daughter.  It  isn't  true.  Don't  believe  it. 
{To  Manager).  Do  you  know  why  she  says  so?  For  that 
fellow  there  {indicates  the  Son).  She  tortures  herself,  de- 
stroys herself  on  account  of  the  neglect  of  that  son  there; 
and  she  wants  him  to  believe  that  if  she  abandoned  him  when 
he  was  only  two  years  old,  it  was  because  he  {indicates  the 
Father)  made  her  do  so. 

The  Mother  {vigorously) .  He  forced  me  to  it,  and  I 
call  God  to  witness  it   {to  the  Manager).     Ask  him   {in- 


14  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

dicates  husband)  if  It  isn't  true.  Let  him  speak.  You  {to 
daughter)  are  not  in  a  position  to  know  anything  about  it. 

The  Step-Daughter.  I  know  you  lived  in  peace  and 
happiness  with  my  father  while  he  lived.     Can  you  deny  it? 

The  Mother.    No,  I  don't  deny  it  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter.  He  was  always  full  of  affection 
and  kindness  for  you  {to  the  Boy,  angrily).  It's  true,  isn't 
it?    Tell  them!    Why  don't  you  speak,  you  little  fool? 

The  Mother.  Leave  the  poor  boy  alone.  Why  do  you 
want  to  make  me  appear  ungrateful,  daughter?  I  don't 
want  to  offend  your  father.  I  have  answered  him  that  I 
didn't  abandon  my  house  and  my  son  through  any  fault  of 
mine,  nor  from  any  wilful  passion. 

The  Father.     It  is  true.     It  was  my  doing. 

Leading  Man  {to  the  Company),    What  a  spectacle! 

Leading  Lady.    We  are  the  audience  this  time. 

Juvenile  Lead.    For  once,  in  a  way. 

The  Manager  {beginning  to  get  really  interested). 
Let's  hear  them  out.    Listen ! 

The  Son.  Oh  yes,  you're  going  to  hear  a  fine  bit  now. 
He  will  talk  to  you  of  the  Demon  of  Experiment. 

The  Father.  You  are  a  cynical  imbecile.  I've  told  you 
so  already  a  hundred  times  {to  the  Manager).  He  tries  to 
make  fun  of  me  on  account  of  this  expression  which  I  have 
found  to  excuse  myself  with. 

The  Son   {with  disgust).     Yes,  phrases!  phrases! 

The  Father.  Phrases!  Isn't  everyone  consoled  when 
faced  with  a  trouble  or  fact  he  doesn't  understand,  by  a 
word,  some  simple  word,  which  tells  us  nothing  and  yet 
calms  us  ? 

The  Step-Daughter.  Even  in  the  case  of  remorse.  In 
fact,  especially  then. 

The  Father.  Remorse?  No,  that  isn't  true.  I've  done 
more  than  use  words  to  quieten  the  remorse  in  me. 


[Act  I]  SIX   CHARACTERS  15 

The  Step-Daughter.  Yes,  there  was  a  bit  of  money 
too.  Yes,  yes,  a  bit  of  money.  There  were  the  hundred  lire 
he  was  about  to  offer  me  in  payment,  gentlemen  .  .  .  (sen- 
sation of  horror  among  the  actors). 

The  Son  {to  the  Step-Daughter).    This  is  vile. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Vile?  There  they  were  in  a 
pale  blue  envelope  on  a  little  mahogany  table  in  the  back  of 
Madame  Pace's  shop.  You  know  Madame  Pace — one  of 
those  ladies  who  attract  poor  girls  of  good  family  into  their 
ateliers,  under  the  pretext  of  their  selling  robes  et  manteaux. 

The  Son.  And  he  thinks  he  has  bought  the  right  to 
tyrannise  over  us  all  with  those  hundred  lire  he  was  going  to 
pay;  but  which,  fortunately — note  this,  gentlemen — he  had 
no  chance  of  paying. 

The  Step-Daughter.  It  was  a  near  thing,  though, 
you  know!  {laughs  ironically) . 

The  Mother  {protesting.)    Shame,  my  daughter,  shame! 

The  Step-Daughter.  Shame  indeed!  This  is  my  re- 
venge! I  am  dying  to  live  that  scene  .  .  .  The  room  .  .  . 
I  see  it  .  .  .  Here  is  the  window  with  the  mantles  exposed, 
there  the  divan,  the  looking-glass,  a  screen,  there  in  front  of 
the  window  the  little  mahogany  table  with  the  blue  envelope 
containing  one  hundred  lire.  I  see  it.  I  see  it.  I  could  take 
hold  of  it  .  .  .  But  you,  gentlemen,  you  ought  to  turn  your 
backs  now :  I  am  almost  nude,  you  know.  But  I  don't  blush : 
I  leave  that  to  him  {indicating  Father). 

The  Manager.    I  don't  understand  this  at  all. 

The  Father.  Naturally  enough.  I  would  ask  you,  sir, 
to  exercise  your  authority  a  little  here,  and  let  me  speak  be- 
fore you  believe  all  she  is  trying  to  blame  me  with.  Let  me 
explain. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Ah  yes,  explain  it  in  your  own 
way. 

The  Father.    But  don't  you  see  that  the  whole  trouble 


16  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

lies  here.  In  words,  words.  Each  one  of  us  has  within  him 
a  whole  world  of  things,  each  man  of  us  his  own  special 
world.  And  how  can  we  ever  come  to  an  understanding  if 
I  put  in  the  words  I  utter  the  sense  and  value  of  things  as  I 
see  them ;  while  you  who  listen  to  me  must  inevitably  trans- 
late them  according  to  the  conception  of  things  each  one  of 
you  has  within  himself.  We  think  we  understand  each  other, 
but  we  never  really  do.  Look  here!  This  woman  (indicat- 
ing the  Mother)  takes  all  my  pity  for  her  as  a  specially 
ferocious  form  of  cruelty. 

The  Mother.    But  you  drove  me  away. 

The  Father.  Do  you  hear  her?  I  drove  her  away! 
She  believes  I  really  sent  her  away. 

The  Mother.  You  know  how  to  talk,  and  I  don't; 
but,  believe  me  sir,  (to  Manager)  after  he  had  married 
me  .  .  .  who  knows  why?  ...  I  was  a  poor  insignificant 
woman  .  .  . 

The  Father.  But,  good  Heavens!  it  was  just  for  your 
humility  that  I  married  you.  I  loved  this  simplicity  in  you 
(He  stops  when  he  sees  she  makes  signs  to  contradict  him, 
opens  his  arms  wide  in  sign  of  desperation,  seeing  how  hope- 
less it  is  to  make  himself  understood).  You  see  she  denies 
it.  Her  mental  deafness,  believe  me,  is  phenomenal,  the 
limit  (touches  his  forehead)  :  deaf,  deaf,  mentally  deaf! 
She  has  plenty  of  feeling.  Oh  yes,  a  good  heart  for  the 
children;  but  the  brain  —  deaf,  to  the  point  of  despera- 
tion  ! 

The  Step-Daughter.  Yes,  but  ask  him  how  his  intelli- 
gence has  helped  us. 

The  Father.  If  we  could  see  all  the  evil  that  may 
spring  from  good,  what  should  we  do?  (At  this  point  the 
Leading  Lady  who  is  biting  her  lips  with  rage  at  seeing  the 
Leading  Man  flirting  with  the  Step-Daughter,  comes  for- 
ward  and  says  to  the  Manager) . 


[Act  I]  SIX    CHARACTERS  17 

/ 

Leading  Lady.  Excuse  me,  but  are  we  going  to  rehearse 
today  ? 

Manager.    Of  course,  of  course;  but  let's  hear  them  out. 

Juvenile  Lead.    This  is  something  quite  new. 

L'Ingenue.     Most  interesting! 

f/£ADiNG  Lady.  Yes,  for  the  people  who  like  that  kind  of 
thing  {casts  a  glance  at  Leading  Man). 

The  Manager  {to  Father.)  You  must  please  explain 
yourself  quite  clearly  {sits  down). 

The  Father.  Very  well  then:  listen!  I  had  in  my 
service  a  poor  man,  a  clerk,  a  secretary  of  mine,  full  of 
devotion,  who  became  friends  with  her  {indicating  the 
Mother).  They  understood  one  another,  were  kindred  souls 
in  fact,  without,  however,  the  least  suspicion  of  any  evil 
existing.    They  were  incapable  even  of  thinking  of  it. 

The  Step-Daughter.     So  he  thought  of  it — for  them! 

The  Father.  That's  not  true.  I  meant  to  do  good  to 
them — and  to  myself,  I  confess,  at  the  same  time.  Things 
had  come  to  the  point  that  I  could  not  say  a  word  to  either 
of  them  without  their  making  a  mute  appeal,  one  to  the 
other,  with  their  eyes.  I  could  see  them  silently  asking  each 
other  how  I  was  to  be  kept  in  countenance,  how  I  was  to  be 
kept  quiet.  And  this,  believe  me,  was  just  about  enough  of 
itself  to  keep  me  in  a  constant  rage,  to  exasperate  me  beyond 
measure. 

The  Manager.  And  why  didn't  you  send  him  away- 
then — this  secretary  of  yours? 

The  Father.  Precisely  what  I  did,  sir.  And  then  I 
had  to  watch  this  poor  woman  drifting  forlornly  about  the 
house  like  an  animal  without  a  master,  like  an  animal  one  has 
taken  in  out  of  pity.  * 

The  Mother.    Ah  yes  .  .  .   ! 

The  Father  {suddenly  turning  to  the  Mother).  It's 
true  about  the  son  anyway,  isn't  it  ? 


18  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

The  Mother.  He  took  my  son  away  from  me  first  of 
all. 

The  Father.  But  not  from  cruelty.  I  did  it  so  that 
he  should  grow  up  healthy  and  strong  by  living  in  the 
country. 

The  Step-Daughter  {pointing  to  him  ironically).  As 
one  can  see. 

The  Father  (quickly).  Is  it  my  fault  if  he  has  grown 
up  like  this?  I  sent  him  to  a  wet  nurse  in  the  country,  a 
peasant,  as  she  did  not  seem  to  me  strong  enough,  though  she 
is  of  humble  origin.  That  was,  anyway,  the  reason  I  married 
her.  Unpleasant  all  this  maybe,  but  how  can  it  be  helped? 
My  mistake  possibly,  but  there  we  are!  All  my  life  I  have 
had  these  confounded  aspirations  towards  a  certain  moral 
sanity.  (At  this  point  the  Step-Daughter  bursts  out  into  a 
noisy  laugh).    Oh,  stop,  it!    Stop  it!    I  can't  stand  it. 

The  Manager.    Yes,  please  stop  it,  for  Heaven's  sake. 

The  Step-Daughter.  But  imagine  moral  sanity  from 
him,  if  you  please — the  client  of  certain  ateliers  like  that  of 
Madame  Pace! 

The  Father.  Fool !  That  is  the  proof  that  I  am  a  man ! 
This  seeming  contradiction,  gentlemen,  is  the  strongest  proof 
that  I  stand  here  a  live  man  before  you.  Why,  it  is  just  for 
this  very  incongruity  in  my  nature  that  I  have  had  to  suffer 
what  I  have.  I  could  not  live  by  the  side  of  that  woman 
{indicating  the  Mother)  any  longer;  but  not  so  much  for  the 
boredom  she  inspired  me  with  as  for  the  pity  I  felt  for  her. 

The  Mother.    And  so  he  turned  me  out — . 

The  Father.  — well  provided  for !  Yes,  I  sent  her  to 
that  man,  gentlemen  ...  to  let  her  go  free  of  me. 

The  Mother.    And  to  free  himself. 

The  Father.  Yes,  I  admit  it.  It  was  also  a  liberation 
for  me.  But  great  evil  has  come  of  it.  I  meant  well  when 
I  did  it ;  and  I  did  it  more  for  her  sake  than  mine.    I  swear 


[Act  I]  SIX    CHARACTERS  19 

it  {crosses  his  arms  on  his  chest;  then  turns  suddenly  to  the 
Mother).  Did  I  ever  lose  sight  of  you  until  that  other  man 
carried  you  off  to  another  town,  like  the  angry  fool  he  was? 
And  on  account  of  my  pure  interest  in  you  .  .  .  my  pure 
interest,  I  repeat,  that  had  no  base  motive  in  it  ...  I 
watched  with  the  tenderest  concern  the  new  family  that 
grew  up  around  her.  She  can  bear  witness  to  this  {points  to 
the  Step-Daughter). 

The  Step-Daughter.  Oh  yes,  that's  true  enough.  When 
I  was  a  kiddie,  so  so  high,  you  know,  with  plaits  over  my 
shoulders  and  knickers  longer  than  my  skirts,  I  used  to  see 
him  w^aiting  outside  the  school  for  me  to  come  out.  He 
came  to  see  how  I  was  growing  up. 

The  Father.    This  is  infamous,  shameful! 

The  Step-Daughter.     No,     Why? 

The  Father.  Infamous!  infamous!  {Then  excitedly 
to  Manager  explaining).  After  she  {indicating  Mother) 
went  away,  my  house  seemed  suddenly  empty.  She  was  my 
incubus,  but  she  filled  my  house.  I  was  like  a  dazed  fly 
alone  in  the  empty  rooms.  This  boy  here  {indicating  the 
Son)  was  educated  away  from  home,  and  w^hen  he  came 
back,  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  no  more  mine.  With  no  mother 
to  stand  between  him  and  me,  he  grew  up  entirely  for 
himself,  on  his  own,  apart,  with  no  tie  of  intellect  or  affection 
binding  him  to  me.  And  then — strange  but  true — I  was 
driven,  by  curiosity  at  first  and  then  by  some  tender  senti- 
ment, towards  her  family,  which  had  come  into  being  through 
my  will.  The  thought  of  her  began  gradually  to  fill  up  the 
emptiness  I  felt  all  around  me.  I  wanted  to  know  if  she 
were  happy  in  living  out  the  simple  daily  duties  of  life.  I 
wanted  to  think  of  her  as  fortunate  and  happy  because  far 
away  from  the  complicated  torments  of  my  spirit.  And  so, 
to  have  proof  of  this,  I  used  to  watch  that  child  coming 
out  of  school. 


20  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

The  Step-Daughter.  Yes,  yes.  True.  He  used  to 
follow  me  in  the  street  and  smiled  at  me,  waved  his  hand, 
like  this.  I  would  look  at  him  with  interest,  wondering  who 
he  might  be.  I  told  my  mother,  who  guessed  at  once  (the 
Mother  agrees  with  a  nod).  Then  she  didn't  want  to  send 
me  to  school  for  some  days;  and  when  I  finally  went  back, 
there  he  was  again — looking  so  ridiculous — with  a  paper 
parcel  in  his  hands.  He  came  close  to  me,  caressed  me,  and 
drew  out  a  fine  straw  hat  from  the  parcel,  with  a  bouquet 
of  flowers — all  for  me! 

The  Manager.    A  bit  discursive  this,  you  know! 

The  Son  {contemptuously).    Literature!    Literature! 

The  Father.  Literature  indeed!  This  is  life,  this  is 
passion ! 

The  Manager.    It  may  be,  but  it  won't  act. 

The  Father.  I  agree.  This  is  only  the  part  leading  up. 
I  don't  suggest  this  should  be  staged.  She  {pointing  to  the 
Step-Daughter),  as  you  see,  is  no  longer  the  flapper  with 
plaits  down  her  back — . 

The  Step-Daughter.  — and  the  knickers  showing  be- 
low the  skirt! 

The  Father.  The  drama  is  coming  now,  sir;  some- 
thing new,  complex,  most  interesting. 

The  Step-Daughter.    As  soon  as  my  father  died  .  .  . 

The  Father.  — there  was  absolute  misery  for  them. 
They  came  back  here,  unknown  to  me.  Through  her  stu- 
pidity {pointing  to  the  Mother)  \  It  is  true  she  can  barely 
write  her  own  name;  but  she  could  anyhow  have  got  her 
daughter  to  write  to  me  that  they  were  in  need  .  .  . 

The  Mother.  And  how  was  I  to  divine  all  this  senti- 
ment in  him? 

The  Father.  That  is  exactly  your  mistake,  never  to 
have  guessed  any  of  my  sentiments. 


[Act  I]  SIX    CHARACTERS  21 

The  ]\1other.  After  so  many  years  apart,  and  all  that 
had  happened  .  .  . 

The  Father.  Was  it  my  fault  if  that  fellow  carried 
you  away?  It  happened  quite  suddenly;  for  after  he  had 
obtained  some  job  or  other,  I  could  find  no  trace  of  them; 
and  so,  not  unnaturally,  my  interest  in  them  dwindled.  But 
the  drama  culminated  unforeseen  and  violent  on  their  re- 
turn, when  I  was  impelled  by  my  miserable  flesh  that  still 
lives  .  .  .  Ah!  what  misery,  what  wretchedness  is  that  of 
the  man  w^ho  is  alone  and  disdains  debasing  liaisons!  Not 
old  enough  to  do  without  women,  and  not  young  enough  to 
go  and  look  for  one  without  shame.  Misery?  It's  worse 
than  misery;  it's  a  horror;  for  no  woman  can  any  longer 
give  him  love;  and  when  a  man  feels  this  .  .  .  One  ought 
to  do  without,  you  say?  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Each  of  us  when 
he  appears  before  his  fellows  is  clothed  in  a  certain  dignity. 
But  every  man  knows  what  unconfessable  things  pass  within 
the  secrecy  of  his  own  heart.  One  gives  way  to  the  tempta- 
tion, only  to  rise  from  it  again,  afterwards,  with  a  great 
eagerness  to  reestablish  one's  dignity,  as  if  it  were  a  tomb- 
stone to  place  on  the  grave  of  one's  shame,  and  a  monument 
to  hide  and  sign  the  memory  of  our  w^eaknesses.  Everybody's 
in  the  same  case.  Some  folks  haven't  the  courage  to  say 
certain  things,  that's  all! 

The  Step-Daughter.  All  appear  to  have  the  courage 
to  do  them  though. 

The  Father.  Yes,  but  in  secret.  Therefore,  you  want 
more  courage  to  say  these  things.  Let  a  man  but  speak  these 
things  out,  and  folks  at  once  label  him  a  cynic.  But  it 
isn't  true.  He  is  like  all  the  others,  better  indeed,  because 
he  isn't  afraid  to  reveal  with  the  light  of  the  intelligence  the 
red  shame  of  human  bestiality  on  which  most  men  close  their 
eyes  so  as  not  to  see  it. 

Woman — for  example,  look  at  her  case!     She  turns  tant- 


22  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  Ij 

allzing  inviting  glances  on  you.  You  seize  her.  No  sooner 
does  she  feel  herself  in  your  grasp  than  she  closes  her  eyes. 
It  is  the  sign  of  her  mission,  the  sign  by  which  she  says  to 
man:   "Blind  yourself,  for  I  am  blind." 

The  Step-Daughter.  Sometimes  she  can  close  them  no 
more :  when  she  no  longer  feels  the  need  of  hiding  her  shame 
to  herself,  but  dry-eyed  and  dispassionately,  sees  only  that  of 
the  man  who  has  blinded  himself  without  love.  Oh,  all  these 
intellectual  complications  make  me  sick,  disgust  me — all  this 
philosophy  that  uncovers  the  beast  in  man,  and  then  seeks  to 
save  him,  excuse  him  ...  I  can't  stand  it,  sir.  When  a 
man  seeks  to  "simplify"  life  bestially,  throwing  aside  every 
relic  of  humanity,  every  chaste  aspiration,  every  pure  feeling, 
all  sense  of  ideality,  duty,  modesty,  shame  .  .  .  then  nothing 
is  more  revolting  and  nauseous  than  a  certain  kind  of  re- 
morse— crocodiles'  tears,  that's  what  it  is. 

The  Manager.  Let's  come  to  the  point.  This  is  only 
discussion. 

The  Father.  Very  good,  sir!  But  a  fact  is  like  a  sack 
which  won't  stand  up  when  it  is  empty.  In  order  that  it 
may  stand  up,  one  has  to  put  into  it  the  reason  and  sentiment 
which  have  caused  it  to  exist.  I  couldn't  possibly  know  that 
after  the  death  of  that  man,  they  had  decided  to  return  here, 
that  they  were  in  misery,  and  that  she  (pointing  to  the 
Mother)  had  gone  to  work  as  a  modiste,  and  at  a  shop  of 
the  type  of  that  of  Madame  Pace. 

The  Step-Daughter.  A  real  high-class  modiste,  you 
must  know,  gentlemen.  In  appearance,  she  works  for  the 
leaders  of  the  best  society;  but  she  arranges  matters  so  that 
these  elegant  ladies  serve  her  purpose  .  .  .  without  prejudice 
to  other  ladies  who  are  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  only  so  so. 

The  Mother.  You  will  believe  me,  gentlemen,  that  it 
never  entered  my  mind  that  the  old  hag  offered  me  work 
because  she  had  her  eye  on  my  daughter. 


[Act  IJ  SIX    CHARACTERS  23 

The  Step-Daughter.  Poor  mamma!  Do  you  know, 
sir,  what  that  woman  did  when  I  brought  her  back  the  work 
my  mother  had  finished  ?  She  would  point  out  to  me  that  I 
had  torn  one  of  my  frocks,  and  she  would  give  it  back  to  my 
mother  to  mend.  It  was  I  who  paid  for  it,  always  I ;  while 
this  poor  creature  here  believed  she  was  sacrificing  herself 
for  me  and  these  two  children  here,  sitting  up  at  night  sew- 
ing Madame  Pace's  robes. 

The  Manager.    And  one  day  you  met  there  .  .  . 
The   Step-Daughter.      Him,   him.     Yes   sir,    an   old 
client.    There's  a  scene  for  you  to  play!  Superb! 

The  Father.  She,  the  Mother  arrived  just  then  .  .  . 
The  Step-Daughter  (treacherously).  Almost  in  time! 
The  Father  {crying  out).  No,  in  time!  in  time! 
Fortunately  I  recognized  her  ...  in  time.  And  I  took 
them  back  home  with  me  to  my  house.  You  can  imagine 
now  her  position  and  mine:  she,  as  you  see  her;  and  I  who 
cannot  look  her  in  the  face. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Absurd!  How  can  I  possibly 
be  expected — after  that — to  be  a  modest  young  miss,  a  fit 
person  to  go  with  his  confounded  aspirations  for  "a  solid 
moral  sanity"? 

The  Father.  For  the  drama  lies  all  in  this — in  the 
conscience  that  I  have,  that  each  one  of  us  has.  We  believe 
this  conscience  to  be  a  single  thing,  but  it  is  many-sided. 
There  is  one  for  this  person,  and  another  for  that.  Diverse 
consciences.  So  we  have  this  illusion  of  being  one  person  for 
all,  of  having  a  personality  that  is  unique  in  all  our  acts.  But 
it  isn't  true.  We  perceive  this  when,  tragically  perhaps,  in 
something  we  do,  we  are  as  it  were,  suspended,  caught  up 
in  the  air  on  a  kind  of  hook.  Then  we  perceive  that  all  of  us 
was  not  in  that  act,  and  that  it  would  be  an  atrocious  in- 
justice to  judge  us  by  that  action  alone,  as  if  all  our  exist- 
ence were  summed  up  in  that  one  deed.    Now  do  you  under- 


24  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

stand  the  perfidy  of  this  girl?  She  surprised  me  in  a  place, 
where  she  ought  not  to  have  known  me,  just  as  I  could  not 
exist  for  her ;  and  she  now  seeks  to  attach  to  me  a  reality  such 
as  I  could  never  suppose  I  should  have  to  assume  for  her  in 
a  shameful  and  fleeting  moment  of  my  life.  I  feel  this  above 
all  else.  And  the  drama,  you  will  see,  acquires  a  tremendous 
value  from  this  point.  Then  there  is  the  position  of  the 
others  .  .  .  his  .  .  .    {indicating  the  Son). 

The  Son  {shrugging  his  shoulders  scornfully).  Leave 
me  alone !     I  don't  come  into  this. 

The  Father.    What?    You  don't  come  into  this? 

The  Son.  I've  got  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  don't  want 
to  have ;  because  you  know  well  enough  I  wasn't  made  to  be 
mixed  up  in  all  this  with  the  rest  of  you. 

The  Step-Daughter.  We  are  only  vulgar  folk!  He 
is  the  fine  gentleman.  You  may  have  noticed,  Mr.  Manager, 
that  I  fix  him  now  and  again  with  a  look  of  scorn  while  he 
low^ers  his  eyes — for  he  knows  the  evil  he  has  done  me. 

The  Son  {scarcely  looking  at  her).     I? 

The  Step-Daughter.  You!  you!  I  owe  my  life  on 
the  streets  to  you.  Did  you  or  did  you  not  deny  us,  with 
your  behaviour,  I  won't  say  the  intimacy  of  home,  but  even 
that  mere  hospitality  which  makes  guests  feel  at  their  ease? 
We  were  intruders  who  had  come  to  disturb  the  kingdom 
of  your  legitimacy.  I  should  like  to  have  you  witness,  Mr. 
Manager,  certain  scenes  between  him  and  m_e.  He  says  1 
have  tyrannized  over  everyone.  But  it  was  just  his  be- 
haviour which  made  me  insist  on  the  reason  for  which  I  had 
come  into  the  house, — this  reason  he  calls  "vile" — into  his 
house,  with  my  mother  who  is  his  mother  too.  And  I  came 
as  mistress  of  the  house. 

The  Son.  It's  easy  for  them  to  put  me  always  in  the 
wrong.  But  imagine,  gentlemen,  the  position  of  a  son,  w^hosc 
fate  it  is  to  see  arrive  one  day  at  his  home  a  young  woman 


[Act  I]  SIX   CHARACTERS  25 

of  impudent  bearing,  a  young  woman  who  inquires  for  hii> 
father,  with  whom  who  knows  what  business  she  has.  This 
young  man  has  then  to  witness  her  return  bolder  than  ever, 
accompanied  by  that  child  there.  He  is  obliged  to  watch  her 
treat  his  father  in  an  equivocal  and  confidential  manner. 
She  asks  money  of  him  in  a  way  that  lets  one  suppose  he 
must  give  it  her,  must,  do  you  understand,  because  he  has 
every  obligation  to  do  so. 

The  Father.  But  I  have,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  this 
obligation.    I  owe  it  to  your  mother. 

The  Son.  How  should  I  know?  When  had  I  ever  seen 
or  heard  of  her?  One  day  there  arrive  with  her  {indicating 
Step-Daughter)  that  lad  and  this  baby  here.  I  am  told: 
"This  is  your  mother  too,  you  know."  I  divine  from  her 
manner  {indicating  Step-Daughter  again)  why  it  is  they 
have  come  home.  I  had  rather  not  say  what  I  feel  and 
think  about  it.  I  shouldn't  even  care  to  confess  to  myself. 
No  action  can  therefore  be  hoped  for  from  me  in  this  affair. 
Believe  me,  Mr.  Manager,  I  am  an  "unrealized"  character, 
dramatically  speaking;  and  I  find  myself  not  at  all  at  ease 
in  their  company.     Leave  me  out  of  it,  I  beg  you. 

The  Father.  What?  It  is  just  because  you  are  so 
that  .  .  . 

The  Son.  How  do  you  know  what  I  am  like?  When 
did  you  ever  bother  your  head  about  me  ? 

The  Father.  I  admit  it.  I  admit  it.  But  isn't  that  a 
situation  in  itself  ?  This  aloofness  of  yours  which  is  so  cruel 
to  me  and  to  your  mother,  who  returns  home  and  sees  you 
almost  for  the  first  time  grown  up,  who  doesn't  recognize 
you  but  knows  you  are  her  son  .  .  .  {pointing  out  the 
Mother  to  the  Manager).     See,  she's  crying! 

The  Step-Daughter  {angrily,  stamping  her  foot).  Like 
a  fool! 

The  Father    {indicating   Step-Daughter).     She   can't 


^ 


26  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

stand  him  you  know.  {Then  referring  again  to  the  Son)  : 
He  says  he  doesn't  come  into  the  affair,  whereas  he  is  really 
the  hinge  of  the  whole  action.  Look  at  that  lad  who  is 
always  clinging  to  his  mother,  frightened  and  humiliated.  It 
is  on  account  of  this  fellow  here.  Possibly  his  situation  is 
the  most  painful  of  all.  He  feels  himself  a  stranger  more 
than  the  others.  The  poor  little  chap  feels  mortified, 
humiliated  at  being  brought  into  a  home  out  of  charity  as 
it  were.  (In  confidence)  — :  He  is  the  image  of  his  father. 
Hardly  talks  at  all.     Humble  and  quiet. 

The  Manager.  Oh,  we'll  cut  him  out.  You've  no 
notion  what  a  nuisance  boys  are  on  the  stage  .  .  . 

The  Father.  He  disappears  soon,  you  know.  And  the 
baby  too.  She  is  the  first  to  vanish  from  the  scene.  The 
drama  consists  finally  in  this:  when  that  mother  re-enters 
my  house,  her  family  born  outside  of  it,  and  shall  w^e  say 
superimposed  on  the  original,  ends  with  the  death  of  the 
little  girl,  the  tragedy  of  the  boy  and  the  flight  of  the  elder 
daughter.  It  cannot  go  on,  because  it  is  foreign  to  its  sur- 
roundings. So  after  much  torment,  we  three  remain:  I, 
the  mother,  that  son.  Then,  owing  to  the  disappearance 
of  that  extraneous  family,  we  too  find  ourselves  strange  to 
one  another.  We  find  we  are  living  in  an  atmosphere  of 
mortal  desolation  which  is  the  revenge,  as  he  {indicating 
Son)  scornfully  said  of  the  Demon  of  Experiment,  that  un- 
fortunately hides  in  me.  Thus,  sir,  you  see  when  faith  is 
lacking,  it  becomes  impossible  to  create  certain  states  of  hap- 
piness, for  we  lack  the  necessary  humility.  Vaingloriously, 
we  try  to  substitute  ourselves  for  this  faith,  creating  thus  for 
the  rest  of  the  world  a  reality  which  we  believe  after  their 
fashion,  while,  actually,  it  doesn't  exist.  For  each  one  of 
us  has  his  own  reality  to  be  respected  before  God,  even  when 
it  is  harmful  to  one's  very  self. 

The  Manager.     There  is  something  in  what  you  say. 


i 


[Act  I]  SIX   CHARACTERS  27 

I  assure  you  all  this  Interests  me  very  much.  I  begin  to 
think  there's  the  stuff  for  a  drama  in  all  this,  and  not  a  bad 
drama  either. 

The  Step-Daughter  {coming  forward).  When  you've 
got  a  character  like  me. 

The  Father  (shutting!  her  up,  all  excited  to  learn  the 
decision  of  the  Manager) .    You  be  quiet! 

The  Manager  {reflecting,  heedless  of  interruption) .  It's 
new  .  .  .  hem  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 

The  Father.    Absolutely  new! 

The  Manager.  You've  got  a  nerve  though,  I  must  say, 
to  come  here  and  fling  it  at  me  like  this  .  .  . 

The  Father.  You  will  understand,  sir,  born  as  we  are 
for  the  stage  .  .  . 

The  Manager.    Are  you  amateur  actors  then  ? 

The  Father.  No.  I  say  born  for  the  stage,  be- 
cause .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Oh,  nonsense.  You're  an  old  hand, 
you  know. 

The  Father.  No  sir,  no.  We  act  that  role  for  which 
we  have  been  cast,  that  role  which  we  are  given  in  life.  And 
in  my  own  case,  passion  itself,  as  usually  happens,  becomes  a 
trifle  theatrical  when  it  is  exalted. 

The  Manager.  Well,  well,  that  will  do.  But  you  see, 
without  an  author  ...  I  could  give  you  the  address  of  an 
author  if  you  like  .  .  . 

The  Father.  No,  no.  Look  here!  You  must  be  the 
author. 

The  Manager.    I?    What  are  you  talking  about? 

The  Father.    Yes,  you,  you!    Why  not? 

The  Manager.  Because  I  have  never  been  an  author: 
that's  why. 

The  Father.  Then  why  not  turn  author  now?  Every- 
body does  it.     You  don't  want  any  special  qualities.     Your 


28  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  I] 

task  is  made  much  easier  by  the  fact  that  we  are  all  here 
alive  before  you  .  .  . 

The  Manager.     It  won't  do. 

The  Father.  What?  When  you  see  us  live  our 
drama  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Yes,  that's  all  right.  But  you  want 
someone  to  write  it. 

The  Father.  No,  no.  Someone  to  take  it  down,  pos- 
sibly, while  we  play  it,  scene  by  scene!  It  will  be  enough 
to  sketch  it  out  at  first,  and  then  try  it  over. 

The  Manager.  Well  ...  I  am  almost  tempted.  It's 
a  bit  of  an  idea.    One  might  have  a  shot  at  it. 

The  Father.  Of  course.  You'll  see  what  scenes  will 
come  out  of  it.     I  can  give  you  one,  at  once  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  By  Jove,  it  tempts  me.  I'd  like  to  have 
a  go  at  it.  Let's  try  it  out.  Come  with  me  to  my  office 
(turning  to  the  Actors).  You  are  at  liberty  for  a  bit,  but 
don't  stop  out  of  the  theatre  for  long.  In  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  twenty  minutes,  all  back  here  again !  ( To  the  Father)  : 
We'll  see  what  can  be  done.  Who  knows  if  we  don't  get 
something  really  extraordinary  out  of  it? 

The  Father.  There's  no  doubt  about  It.  They  {in- 
dicating the  Characters)  had  better  come  with  us  too,  hadn't 
they? 

The  Manager.  Yes,  yes.  Come  on!  come  on!  {Moves 
away  and  then  turning  to  the  actors)  :  Be  punctual,  please! 
{Manager  and  the  Six  Characters  cross  the  stage  and  go 
off.  The  other  actors  remain,  looking  at  one  another  in 
astonishment) . 

Leading  Man.  Is  he  serious?  WTiat  the  devil  does  he 
want  to  do? 

Juvenile  Lead.    This  is  rank  madness. 

Third  Actor.  Does  he  expect  to  knock  up  a  drama  in 
five  minutes? 


[Act  I]  SIX    CHARACTERS  29 

Juvenile  Lead.     Like  the  improvisers! 
i#Leading  Lady.     If  he  thinks  I'm  going  to  take  part  in 
a  joke  like  this  .  .  . 

Juvenile  Lead.    I'm  out  of  it  anyway. 

Fourth  Actor.  I  should  like  to  know  who  they  are 
(alludes  to  Characters). 

Third  Actor.  What  do  you  suppose?  Madmen  or 
rascals! 

Juvenile  Lead.    And  he  takes  them  seriously ! 

L'Ingenue.  Vanity!  He  fancies  himself  as  an  author 
now. 

Leading  Man.  It's  absolutely  unheard  of.  If  the  stage 
has  come  to  this  .  .  .  well  I'm  .  .  . 

Fifth  Actor.     It's  rather  a  joke. 

Third  Actor.  Well,  we'll  see  what's  going  to  happen 
next. 

(Thus  talking^  the  actors  leave  the  stage;  some  going  out 
by  the  little  door  at  the  back;  others  retiring  to  their  dressing- 
rooms. 

The  curtain  remains  up. 

The  action  of  the  play  is  suspended  for  twenty  minutes),, 


ACT  II. 

The  stage  call-bells  ring  to  warn  the  company  that  the 
play  is  about  to  begin  again. 

The  Step-Daughter  comes  out  of  the  Manager  s  office 
along  with  The  Child  and  The  Boy.  As  she  comes  out  of 
the  office  J  she  cries: — 

Nonsense!  nonsense!  Do  it  yourselves!  I'm  not  going  to 
mix  myself  up  in  this  mess.  {Turning  to  the  Child  and 
coming  quickly  with  her  on  to  the  stage)  :  Come  on, 
Rosetta,  let's  run ! 

(The  Boy  follows  them  slowly,  remaining  a  little  behind 
and  seeming  perplexed) . 

The  Step-Daughter.  {Stops,  bends  over  the  Child  and 
takes  the  latter  s  face  between  her  hands).  My  little  darling! 
You're  frightened,  aren't  you?  You  don't  know  where  we 
are,  do  you?  {Pretending  to  reply  to  a  question  of  the 
Child)  :  What  is  the  stage?  It's  a  place,  baby,  you  know, 
where  people  play  at  being  serious,  a  place  where  they  act 
comedies.  We've  got  to  act  a  comedy  now,  dead  serious, 
you  know;  and  you're  in  it  also,  little  one.  {Embraces  her. 
pressing  the  little  head  to  her  breast,  and  rocking  the  child 
for  a  moment).  Oh  darling,  darling,  what  a  horrid  comedy 
you've  got  to  play !  What  a  wretched  part  they've  found  for 
you!  A  garden  ...  a  fountain  .  .  .  look  .  .  .  just  sup- 
pose, kiddie,  it's  here.  Where,  you  say?  Why,  right  here 
in  the  middle.  It's  all  pretence  you  know.  That's  the 
trouble,  my  pet:  it's  all  make-believe  here.  It's  better  to 
imagine  it  though,  because  if  they  fix  it  up  for  you,  it'll  only 

30 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  31 

be  painted  cardboard,  painted  cardboard  for  the  rockery,  the 
water,  the  plants  .  .  .  Ah,  but  I  think  a  baby  like  this  one 
would  sooner  have  a  make-believe  fountain  than  a  real  one, 
so  she  could  play  with  it.  What  a  joke  it'll  be  for  the 
others!  But  for  you,  alas!  not  quite  such  a  joke:  you  who  are 
real,  baby  dear,  and  really  play  by  a  real  fountain  that  is  big 
and  green  and  beautiful,  with  ever  so  many  bamboos  around 
it  that  are  reflected  in  the  v/ater,  and  a  whole  lot  of  little 
ducks  swimming  about  .  .  .  No,  Rosetta,  no,  your  mother 
doesn't  bother  about  you  on  account  of  that  wretch  of  a 
son  there.  I'm  in  the  devil  of  a  temper,  and  as  for  that 
lad  .  .  .  {Seizes  Boy  by  the  arm  to  force  him  to  take  one  of 
his  hands  out  of  his  pockets).  What  have  you  got  there? 
What  are  you  hiding?  {Pulls  his  hand  out  of  his  pocket, 
looks  into  it  and  catches  the  glint  of  a  revolver).  Ah!  where 
did  you  get  this? 

(The  Boy,  very  pale  in  the  face,  Iboks  at  her,  but  does 
not  answer). 

Idiot!  If  I'd  been  in  your  place,  instead  of  killing  myself, 
I'd  have  shot  one  of  those  two,  or  both  of  them:  father  and 
son. 

(The  Father  enters  from  the  office j  all  excited  from  his 
work.    The  Manager  follows  him). 

The  Father.  Come  on,  come  on  dear!  Come  here  for 
a  minute!     We've  arranged  everything.     It's  all  fixed  up. 

The  Manager  {also  excited).  If  you  please,  young 
lady,  there  are  one  or  two  points  to  settle  still.  Will  you 
come  along? 

The  Step-Daughter  {following  him  towards  the 
office).  Ouff!  what's  the  good,  if  you've  arranged  every- 
thing. 

(The  Father,  Manager  and  Step-Daughter  go  back 
into  the  office  again  {off)  for  a  moment.  At  the  same  time. 
The  Son  followed  by  The  Mother,  comes  out). 


32  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

The  Son  (looking  at  the  three  entering  office).  Oh  this 
is  fine,  fine!     And  to  think  I  can't  even  get  away! 

(The  Mother  attempts  to  look  at  him,  but  lowers  her 
eyes  immediately  ivhen  he  turns  away  from  her.  She  then 
sits  down.  The  Boy  and  The  Child  approach  her.  She 
casts  a  glance  again  at  the  Son,  and  speaks  with  humble  tones, 
trying  to  draw  hiin  into  conversation). 

The  Mother.  And  isn't  my  punishment  tlie  worst  of 
all?  {Then  seeing  from  the  Sons  manner  that  he  will  not 
bother  himself  about  her).  My  God!  Why  are  you  so 
cruel?  Isn't  it  enough  for  one  person  to  support  all  this 
torment?    Must  you  then  insist  on  others  seeing  it  also? 

The  Son  {half  to  himself,  meaning  the  Mother  to  hear, 
however).  And  they  want  to  put  it  on  the  stage!  If  there 
was  at  least  a  reason  for  it!  He  thinks  he  has  got  at  the 
meaning  of  it  all.  Just  as  if  each  one  of  us  in  every  circum- 
stance of  life  couldn't  find  his  own  explanation  of  it! 
{Pauses).  He  complains  he  was  discovered  in  a  place  where 
he  ought  not  to  have  been  seen,  in  a  moment  of  his  life  which 
ought  to  have  remained  hidden  and  kept  out  of  the  reach  of 
that  convention  which  he  has  to  maintain  for  other  people. 
And  what  about  my  case  ?  Haven't  I  had  to  reveal  what  no 
son  ought  ever  to  reveal:  how  father  and  mother  live  and 
are  man  and  wife  for  themselves  quite  apart  from  that  idea 
of  father  and  mother  w^hich  we  give  them  ?  When  this  idea 
is  revealed,  our  life  is  then  linked  at  one  point  only  to  that 
man  and  that  woman;  and  as  such  it  should  shame  them, 
shouldn't  it? 

The  Mother  hides  her  face  in  her  hands.  From  the 
dressing-rooms  and  the  little  door  at  the  back  of  the  stage  the 
actors  and  Stage  Manager  return,  followed  by  the  Prop- 
erty Man,  and  the  Prompter.  At  the  same  moment.  The 
Manager  comes  out  of  his  office,  accompanied  by  the 
Father  and  the  Step-Daughter. 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  33 

The  Manager.  Come  on,  come  on,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men!    Heh!  you  there,  machinist! 

Machinist.    Yes  sir  ? 

The  Manager.  Fix  up  the  white  parlor  with  the  floral 
decorations.  Two  wings  and  a  drop  with  a  door  will  do. 
Hurry  up! 

(The  Machinist  runs  off  at  once  to  prepare  the  scene, 
and  arranges  it  while  The  Manager  talks  with  the  Stage 
Manager^  the  Property  Man,  and  the  Prompter  on 
matters  of  detail). 

The  Manager  {to  Property  Man).  Just  have  a  look, 
and  see  if  there  isn't  a  sofa  or  divan  in  the  wardrobe  .  .  . 

Property  Man.     There's  the  green  one. 

The  Step-Daughter.  No  no)  Green  won't  do.  It 
was  yellow,  ornamented  with  flowers — very  large !  and  most 
comfortable ! 

Property  Man.    There  isn't  one  like  that. 

The  Manager.  It  doesn't  matter.  Use  the  one  we've 
got. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Doesn't  matter?  It's  most  im- 
portant! 

The  Manager.  We're  only  trying  it  now.  Please  don't 
interfere.  (To  Property  Man)  :  See  if  ^ve've  got  a  shop 
window — long  and  narrowish. 

The  Step-Daughter.  And  the  little  table!  The  little 
mahogany  table  for  the  pale  blue  envelope ! 

Property  Man  {To  Manager).  There's  that  little  gilt 
one. 

The  Manager.    That'll  do  fine. 

The  Father.    A  mirror. 

The  Step-Daughter.  And  the  screen !  We  must  have 
a  screen.    Otherwise  how  can  I  manage? 

Property  Man.  That's  all  right,  Miss.  We've  got 
any  amount  of  them. 


34  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

The  Manager  {to  the  Step-Daughter).  We  want  some 
clothes  pegs  too,  don't  we? 

The  Step-Daughter.    Yes,  several,  several! 

The  Manager.  See  how  many  we've  got  and  bring 
them  all. 

Property  Man.    All  right! 

(The  Property  Man  hurries  ojf  to  obey  his  orders. 
While  he  is  putting  the  things  in  their  places,  the  Manager 
talks  to  the  Prompter  and  then  with  the  Characters  and  the 
actors). 

The  Manager  {to  Prompter).  Take  your  seat.  Look 
here:  this  is  the  outline  of  the  scenes,  act  by  act  {hands  him 
some  sheets  of  paper).  And  now  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do 
something  out  of  the  ordinary. 

Prompter.    Take  it  down  in  shorthand? 

The  Manager  {pleasantly  surprised).  Exactly!  Can 
you  do  shorthand? 

Prompter.    Yes,  a  little. 

Manager.  Good !  ( Turning  to  a  stage  hand)  :  Go 
and  get  some  paper  from  my  office,  plenty,  as  much  as  you 
can  find. 

{The  stage  hand  goes  ojf,  and  soon  returns  with  a  handful 
of  paper  which  he  gives  to  the  Prompter) . 

The  Manager  {To  Prompter).  You  follow  the  scenes 
as  we  play  them,  and  try  and  get  the  points  down,  at  any 
rate  the  most  important  ones.  {Then  addressing  the  actors)  : 
Clear  the  stage,  ladies  and  gentlemen!  Come  over  here 
{pointing  to  the  Left)  and  listen  attentively. 
-^.-Xeading  Lady.     But,  excuse  me,  we  .  .  . 

The  Manager  {guessing  her  thought).  Don*t  worry! 
You  won't  have  to  improvise. 

Leading  Man.    What  have  we  to  do  then  ? 

The  Manager.  Nothing.  For  the  moment  you  just 
watch  and  listen.     Everybody  will  get  his  part  written  out 


[Act  II]  SIX   CHARACTERS  35 

afterwards.  At  present  we're  going  to  try  the  thing  as  best 
wc  can.    They're  going  to  act  now. 

The  Father  {as  if  fallen  from  the  clouds  into  the  con- 
fusion of  the  stage).  We?  What  do  you  mean,  if  you 
please,  by  a  rehearsal? 

The  Manager.  A  rehearsal  for  them  {points  to  the 
actors). 

The  Father.    But  since  we  are  the  characters  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  All  right:  "characters"  then,  if  you 
insist  on  calling  yourselves  such.  But  here,  my  dear  sir, 
the  characters  don't  act.  Here  the  actors  do  the  acting.  The 
characters  are  there,  in  the  "book"  {pointing  towards 
Prompter  s  box) — when  there  is  a  "book"! 

The  Father.  I  won't  contradict  you;  but  excuse  me, 
the  actors  aren't  the  characters.  They  want  to  be,  they  pre- 
tend to  be,  don't  they?  Now  if  these  gentlemen  here  are 
fortunate  enough  to  have  us  alive  before  them  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Oh  this  is  grand!  You  want  to  come 
before  the  public  yourselves  then? 

The  Father.    As  we  are  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  I  can  assure  you  it  would  be  a  mag- 
nificent spectacle! 

Leading  Man.  What's  the  use  of  us  here  anjrway 
then? 

The  Manager.  You're  not  going  to  pretend  that  you 
can  act?  It  makes  me  laugh !  {The  actors  laugh).  There, 
you  see,  they  are  laughing  at  the  notion.  But,  by  the  way, 
I  must  cast  the  parts.  That  won't  be  difficult.  They  cast 
themselves.  ( To  the  Second  Lady  Lead)  :  You  play  the 
Mother.     {To  the  Father)  :    We  must  find  her  a  name. 

The  Father.    Amalia,  sir. 

The  Manager.  But  that  is  the  real  name  of  your  wife 
We  don't  want  to  call  her  by  her  real  name. 

The  Father.     Why  ever  not,  if  it  is  her  name?  .  •  • 


36  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

Still,  perhaps,  If  that  lady  must  .  .  .  {makes  a  slight  motion 
of  the  hand  to  indicate  the  Second  Lady  Lead) .  I  see  this 
woman  here  {means  the  Mother)  as  Amalla.  But  do  as 
you  like  {gets  more  and  more  confused).  I  don't  know  what 
to  say  to  you.  Already,  I  begin  to  hear  my  own  words  ring 
false,  as  if  they  had  another  sound  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Don't  you  worry  about  it.  It'll  be  our 
job  to  find  the  right  tones.  And  as  for  her  name,  if  you  want 
her  Amalla,  Amalia  it  shall  be;  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  we'll 
find  another!  For  the  moment  though,  we'll  call  the  char- 
acters In  this  way:  {to  Juvenile  Lead)  You  are  the  Son; 
{to  the  Leading  Lady)  You  naturally  are  the  Step-Daugh- 
ter ..  . 

The  Step-Daughter  (excitedly).  W^at?  what?  I, 
that  woman  there?     {Bursts  out  laughing). 

The  Manager  {angry).  What  is  there  to  laugh  at? 
^Leading  Lady  {indignant).  Nobody  has  ever  dared  to 
laugh  at  me.  I  Insist  on  being  treated  with  respect;  other- 
wise I  go  away. 

The  Step-Daughter.  No,  no,  excuse  me  .  .  .  I  am 
not  laughing  at  you  .  .  . 

The  Manager  {to  Step-Daughter) .  You  ought  to  feel 
honoured  to  be  played  by  .  .  . 

^Leading  Lady  {at  once,  contemptuously) .  "That  woman 
there"  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter.  But  I  wasn't  speaking  of  you, 
you  know.  I  was  speaking  of  myself — whom  I  can't  see  at 
all  In  you!  That  is  all.  I  don't  know  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 
you  .  .  .  aren't  In  the  least  like  me  .  .  . 

The  Father.  True.  Here's  the  point.  Look  here,  sir, 
our  temperaments,  our  souls  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Temperament,  soul,  be  hanged!  Do 
you  suppose  the  spirit  of  the  piece  Is  In  you  ?  Nothing  of  the 
kind! 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  37 

The  Father.  What,  haven't  we  our  own  temperaments, 
our  own  souls? 

The  Manager.  Not  at  all.  Your  soul  or  whatever  you 
like  to  call  it  takes  shape  here.  The  actors  give  body  and 
form  to  it,  voice  and  gesture.  And  my  actors — I  may  tell 
you — have  given  expression  to  much  more  lofty  material  than 
this  little  drama  of  yours,  which  may  or  may  not  hold  up 
on  the  stage.  But  if  it  does,  the  merit  of  it,  believe  me,  will 
be  due  to  my  actors. 

The  Father.  I  don't  dare  contradict  you,  sir;  but, 
believe  me,  it  is  a  terrible  suffering  for  us  who  are  as  we  arc, 
with  these  bodies  of  ours,  these  features  to  see  .  .  . 

The  Manager  (cutting  him  short  and  out  of  patience). 
Good  heavens!  The  make-up  will  remedy  all  that,  man, 
the  make-up  .  .  . 

The  Father.    Maybe.    But  the  voice,  the  gestures  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Now,  look  here!  On  the  stage,  you 
as  yourself,  cannot  exist.  The  actor  here  acts  you,  and  that's 
an  end  to  it! 

The  Father.  I  understand.  And  now  I  think  I  see  why 
our  author  who  conceived  us  as  we  are,  all  alive,  didn't  want 
to  put  us  on  the  stage  after  all.  I  haven't  the  least  desire  to 
offend  your  actors.  Far  from  it !  But  when  I  think  that  I 
am  to  be  acted  by  ...  I  don't  know  by  whom  .  .  . 

Leading  Man  {on  his  dignity).  By  me,  if  you've  no 
objection! 

The  Father  {humbly,  mellifluously) ,  Honoured,  I 
assure  you,  sir.  {Bows).  Still,  I  must  say  that  try  as  this 
gentleman  may,  with  all  his  good  will  and  wonderful  art,  to 
absorb  me  into  himself  .  .  . 

Leading  Man.  Oh  chuck  it!  ^'Wonderful  art!"  With- 
draw that,  please ! 

The  Father.  The  performance  he  will  give,  even  doing 
his  best  with  make-up  to  look  like  me  .  .  . 


38  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

Leading  Man.  It  will  certainly  be  a  wt  difficult !  ( The 
actors  laugh.) 

The  Father,  Exactly!  It  will  be  difficult  to  act  me  as 
I  really  am.  j  The  effect  will  be  rather — apart  from  the 
make-up — according  as  to  how  he  supposes  I  am,  as  he  senses 
me — if  he  does  sense  me — and  not  as  I  inside  of  myself  feel 
myself  to  be.  ^t  seems  to  me  then  that  account  should  be 
taken  of  this  by  everyone  whose  duty  it  may  become  to 
criticize  us  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Heavens !  The  man's  starting  to  think 
about  the  critics  now!  Let  them  say  what  they  like.  It's 
up  to  us  to  put  on  the  play  if  we  can  (looking  around). 
Come  on!  come  on!  Is  the  stage  set?  {To  the  actors  and 
Characters)  :  Stand  back — stand  back!  Let  me  see,  and 
don't  let's  lose  any  more  time '  ( To  the  Step-Daughter)  : 
Is  it  all  right  as  it  is  now? 

The  Step-Daughter.  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't 
recognize  the  scene. 

The  Manager.  My  dear  lady,  you  can't  possibly  sup- 
pose that  we  can  construct  that  shop  of  Madame  Pace  piec^ 
by  piece  here?  {To  the  Father)  :  You  said  a  white  room 
with  flowered  wall  paper,  didn't  you? 

The  Father.    Yes. 

The  Manager.  Well  then.  We've  got  the  furniture 
right  more  or  less.  Bring  that  little  table  a  bit  further  for- 
ward. {The  stage  hands  obey  the  order.  To  Property 
Alan)  :  You  go  and  find  an  envelope,  if  possible,  a  pale  blue 
one;  and  give  it  to  that  gentleman  {indicates  Father). 

Property  Man.     An  ordinary  envelope? 

Manager  and  Father.    Yes,  yes,  an  ordinary  envelope. 

Property  Man.    At  once,  sir  {exit). 

The  Manager.  Ready,  everyone!  First  scene — the 
*^"oung  Lady.     (The  Leading  Lady  comes  forward).     No, 


[Act  II]  SIX   CHARACTERS  39 

no,    you   must   wait.      I    meant   her    {indicating   the   Step- 
Daughter).    You  just  watch — 

The  Step-Daughter  {adding  at  once).  How  I  shall 
play  it,  how  I  shall  live  it!  .  .  . 

•'Leading  Lady  {offended).    I  shall  live  it  also,  you  may 
be  sure,  as  soon  as  I  begin! 

The  Manager  {with  his  hands  to  his  head).  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  if  you  please!  No  more  useless  discussions! 
Scene  I:  the  young  lady  with  Madame  Pace:  Oh!  {looks 
4iround  as  if  lost).     And  this  Madame  Pace,  where  is  she? 

The  Father.    She  isn't  with  us,  sir. 

The  Manager.    Then  what  the  devil's  to  be  done? 

The  Father.    But  she  is  alive  too. 

The  Manager.    Yes,  but  where  is  she? 

The  Father.  One  minute.  Let  me  speak!  {turning  to 
the  actresses).  If  these  ladies  would  be  so  good  as  to  give 
me  their  hats  for  a  moment  .  .  . 

The  Actresses  {half  surprised,  half  laughing j  in  chorus). 
What? 

Why? 

Our  hats? 

What  does  he  say? 

The  Manager.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the 
ladies'  hats?      {The  actors  laugh). 

The  Father.  Oh  nothing.  I  just  want  to  put  them 
on  these  pegs  for  a  moment.  And  one  of  the  ladies  will  be 
so  kind  as  to  take  ofi  her  mantle  .  .  . 

The  Actors.    Oh,  what  d'you  think  of  that? 

Only  the  mantle? 

He  must  be  mad. 

Some  Actresses.    But  why? 

Mantles  as  well? 

The  Father.  To  hang  them  up  here  for  a  moment 
Please  be  so  kind,  will  you  ? 


40  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

The  Actresses  {taking  off  their  hats,  one  or  two  also 
their  cloaks,  and  going  to  hang  them  on  the  racks).  After 
all,  why  not? 

There  you  are! 

This  is  really  funny. 

We've  got  to  put  them  on  show. 

The  Father.    Exactly;  just  like  that,  on  show. 

The  Manager.     May  we  know  why? 

The  Father.  I'll  tell  you.  Who  knows  if,  by  ar- 
ranging the  stage  for  her,  she  does  not  come  here  herself, 
attracted  by  the  very  articles  of  her  trade?  {Inviting  the 
actors  to  look  towards  the  exit  at  back  of  stage):  Look! 
Look! 

{The  door  at  the  back  of  stage  opens  and  Madame  Pacl 
enters  and  takes  a  few  steps  forward.  She  is  a  fat,  oldish 
woman  with  puffy  oxygenated  hair.  She  is  rouged  and 
powdered,  dressed  with  a  comical  elegance  in  black  silk. 
Round  her  waist  is  a  long  silver  chain  from  which  hangs  a 
pair  of  scissors.  The  Step-Daughter  runs  over  to  her  at 
once  amid  the  stupor  of  the  actors). 

The  Step-Daughter  {turning  towards  her).  There 
she  is!    There  she  is! 

The  Father  {radiant).  It's  she!  I  said  so,  didn't  I? 
There  she  is! 

The  Manager  {conquering  his  surprise,  and  then  be- 
coming indignant) .     What  sort  of  a  trick  is  this? 

Leading  Man  {almost  at  the  same  time).  What's  going 
to  happen  next? 

Juvenile  Lead.    Where  does  she  come  from? 

L'Ingenue.  They've  been  holding  her  in  reserve,  I 
guess. 

Leading  Lady.    A  vulgar  trick! 

The  Father  {dominating  the  protests).  Excuse  me,  all 
^f  you!     Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  destroy  in  the  name 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  41 

of  a  vulgar,  commonplace  sense  of  truth,  this  reality  which 
comes  to  birth  attracted  and  formed  by  the  magic  of  the 
stage  itself,  which  has  indeed  more  right  to  live  here  than 
you,  since  it  is  much  truer  than  you — if  you  don't  mind  my 
saying  so?  Which  is  the  actress  among  you  who  is  to  play 
Madame  Pace?  Well,  here  is  Madame  Pace  herself.  And 
you  will  allow,  I  fancy,  that  the  actress  who  acts  her  will  be 
less  true  than  this  woman  here,  who  is  herself  in  person.  You 
see  my  daughter  recognized  her  and  went  over  to  her  at  once. 
Now  you're  going  to  witness  the  scene ! 

But  the  scejie  between  the  Step-Daughter  and  Madame 
Pace  has  already  begun  despite  the  protest  of  the  actors  and 
the  reply  of  The  Father.  It  has  begun  quietly,  naturally, 
in  a  manner  impossible  for  the  stage.  So  when  the  actors, 
called  to  attention  by  The  Father,  turn  round  and  see 
Madame  Pace,  who  has  placed  one  hand  under  the  Step- 
Daughter's  chin  to  raise  her  head,  they  observe  her  at  first 
with  great  attention,  but  hearing  her  speak  in  an  unintelligible 
manner  their  interest  begins  to  wane. 

The  Manager.    W^ell?  well? 

Leading  Man.    What  does  she  say? 

Leading  Lady.    One  can't  hear  a  word.  . 

Juvenile  Lead.    Louder!    Louder  please!  ^ 

The  Step-Daughter  (leaving  Madame  Pace,  who 
smiles  a  Sphinx-like  smile,  and  advancing  towards  the  actors) . 
Louder?  Louder?  What  are  you  talking  about?  These 
aren't  matters  w^hich  can  be  shouted  at  the  top  of  one's 
voice.  If  I  have  spoken  them  out  loud,  it  was  to  shame 
him  and  have  my  revenge  {indicates  Father).  But  for 
Madame  it's  quite  a  different  matter. 

The  Manager.  Indeed?  indeed?  But  here,  you  know, 
people  have  got  to  make  themselves  heard,  my  dear.  Even 
we  who  are  on  the  stage  can't  hear  you.  What  will  it  be 
when  the  public's  in  the  theatre  ?    And  anyway,  you  can  very 


42  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

well  speak  up  now  among  yourselves,  since  we  shan't  be 
present  to  listen  to  you  as  we  are  now.  You've  got  to  pre- 
tend to  be  alone  in  a  room  at  the  back  of  a  shop  where  no  one 
can  hear  you. 

(The  Step-Daughter  coquettishly  and  with  a  touch  of 
malice  makes  a  sign  of  disagreement  two  or  three  times  with 
her  finger) . 

The  Manager.    What  do  you  mean  by  no? 

The  Step-Daughter  {sotto  voce,  mysteriously).  There's 
someone  who  will  hear  us  if  she  {indicating  Madame  Pace) 
speaks  out  loud. 

The  Manager  {in  consternation).  What?  Have  you 
got  someone  else  to  spring  on  us  now?  {The  actors  burst 
out  laughing). 

The  Father.  No,  no  sir.  She  is  alluding  to  me.  I've 
got  to  be  here — there  behind  that  door,  in  waiting;  and 
Madame  Pace  knows  it.  In  fact,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I'll 
go  there  at  once,  so  I  can  be  quite  ready.     {Moves  away). 

The  Manager  {stopping  him).  No!  Wait!  wait!  We 
must  observe  the  conventions  of  the  theatre.  Before  you  are 
ready  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter  {interrupting  him).  No,  get  on 
with  it  at  once!  I'm  just  dying,  I  tell  you,  to  act  this  scene. 
If  he's  ready,  J'm  more  than  ready. 

The  Manager  {shouting) .  But,  my  dear  young  lady, 
first  of  all,  we  must  have  the  scene  between  you  and  this 
lady  .  .  .  {indicates  Madame  Pace).  Do  you  under- 
stand? .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter.  Good  Heavens !  She's  been  tell- 
ing me  what  you  know  already :  that  mamma's  work  is  badly 
done  again,  that  the  material's  ruined ;  and  that  if  I  want  her 
to  continue  to  help  us  in  our  misery  I  must  be  patient  .  .  . 

Madame  Pace  {coming  forward  with  an  air  of  great  im' 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  43 

portance).  Yes  Indeed,  sir,  I  no  wanta  take  advantage  of 
her,  I  no  wanta  be  hard  .  .  . 

(Note.  MadaTiie  Pace  is  supposed  to  talk  in  a  jargon  half 
Italian,  half  Spanish). 

The  Manager  {alarmed).  What?  What?  She  talks 
like  that?     {The  actors  burst  out  laughing  again). 

The  Step-Daughter  {also  laughing).  Yes  yes,  that's 
the  way  she  talks,  half  English,  half  Italian!  Most  comical 
it  is! 

Madame  Pace.  Itta  seem  not  verra  polite  gentlemen 
laugha  atta  me  eef  I  trya  best  speaka  English. 

The  Manager.  Diamine!  Of  course!  Of  course!  Let 
her  talk  like  that!  Just  what  we  want.  Talk  just  like  that, 
Madam,  if  you  please!  The  effect  will  be  certain.  Exactly 
what  w^as  wanted  to  put  a  little  comic  relief  into  the  crudity 
of  the  situation.    Of  course  she  talks  like  that!   Magnificent! 

The  Step-Daughter.  Magnificent?  Certainly!  When 
certain  suggestions  are  made  to  one  in  language  of  that  kind, 
the  effect  is  certain,  since  it  seems  almost  a  joke.  One  feels 
inclined  to  laugh  when  one  hears  her  talk  about  an  **old 
signore"  *'who  wanta  talka  nicely  with  you."  Nice  old 
signore,  eh,  Madame? 

Madame  Pace.  Not  so  old  my  dear,  not  so  old!  And 
even  if  5'ou  no  lika  him,  he  won't  make  any  scandal ! 

The  Mother  {jumping  up  amid  the  amazement  and  con- 
sternation  of  the  actors  who  had  not  been  noticing  her.  They 
move  to  restrain  her).     You  old  devil!     You  murderess! 

The  Step-Daughter  {running  over  to  calm  her 
Mother)  .  Calm  yourself,  mother,  calm  yourself!  Please 
don't  .  .  . 

The  Father  {going  to  her  also  at  the  same  time).  Calm 
yourself!    Don't  get  excited !     Sit  down  now! 

The  Mother.  Well  then,  take  that  woman  away  out 
of  my  sight ! 


44  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

The  Step-Daughter  {to  Manager).  It  is  impossible 
for  my  mother  to  remain  here. 

The  Father  {to  Manager).  They  can't  be  here  to- 
gether. And  for  this  reason,  you  see :  that  woman  there  was 
not  with  us  when  we  came  ...  If  they  are  on  together,  the 
whole  thing  is  given  away  inevitably,  as  you  see. 

The  Manager.  It  doesn't  matter.  This  is  only  a  first 
rough  sketch — ^just  to  get  an  idea  of  the  various  points  of  the 
scene,  even  confusedly  .  .  .  {Turning  to  the  Mother  and 
leading  her  to  her  chair)  :  Come  along,  my  dear  lady,  sit 
down  now,  and  let's  get  on  with  the  scene  .  .  . 

{Meanwhile,  the  Step-Daughter,  coming  forward  again ^ 
turns  to  Madame  Pace). 

The  Step-Daughter.    Come  on,  Madame,  come  on ! 

Madame  Pace  {offended).  No,  no,  grazie.  I  not  do 
anything  witha  your  mother  present. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Nonsense!  Introduce  this  "old 
signore"  who  wants  to  talk  nicely  to  me  {addressing  the 
company  imperiously) .  We've  got  to  do  this  scene  one  way 
or  another,  haven't  we?  Come  on!  {to  Madame  Pace). 
You  can  go! 

Madame  Pace.  Ah  yes!  I  go'way!  I  go'w^ay!  Cer- 
tainly! {Exist  furious). 

The  Step-Daughter  {to  the  Father).  Now  you  make 
your  entry.  No,  you  needn't  go  over  here.  Come  here. 
Let's  suppose  you've  already  come  in.  Like  that,  yes!  I'nj 
here  with  bowed  head,  modest  like.  Come  on!  Out  with 
your  voice!  Say  "Good  morning.  Miss"  in  that  peculiar 
tone,  that  special  tone  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Excuse  me,  but  are  you  the  Manager, 
or  am  I?  {To  the  Father,  who  looks  undecided  and  per- 
plexed) :  Get  on  with  it,  man !  Go  down  there  to  the  back 
of  the  stage.  You  needn't  go  off.  Then  come  right  forward 
hert. 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  45 

(The  Father  does  as  he  is  told,  looking  troubled  and 
perplexed  at  first.  But  as  soon  as  he  begins  to  move,  the 
reality  of  the  action  affects  him,  and  he  begins  to  smile  and  to 
be  more  natural.     The  actors  watch  intently). 

The  Manager  {sottovoce,  quickly  to  the  Prompter  in  his 
box).     Ready!  ready?    Get  ready  to  write  now. 

The  Father  {coming  forward  and  speaking  in  a  differ- 
ent tone).     Good  afternoon,  Miss! 

The  Step-Daughter  {head  bowed  down  slightly,  with 
restrained  disgust).    Good  afternoon! 

The  Father  {looks  under  her  hat  which  partly  covers 
her  face.  Perceiving  she  is  very  young,  he  makes  an  exclama- 
tion, partly  of  surprise,  partly  of  fear  lest  he  compromise 
himself  in  a  risky  adveniurej  Ah  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  ah  .  .  . 
I  say  .  .  .  this  is  not  the  first  time  that  you  have  come  here, 
is  it? 

The  Step-Daughter  {modestly).    No  sir. 

The  Father.  YouVe  been  here  before,  eh?  {Then 
seeing  her  nod  agreement)  :  More  than  once?  {Waits  for 
her  to  answer,  looks  under  her  hat,  smiles,  and  then  says)  : 
Well  then,  there's  no  need  to  be  so  shy,  is  there?  May  I 
take  oft  your  hat? 

The  Step-Daughter  {anticipating  him  and  with  veiled 
disgust).  No  sir  .  .  .  I'll  do  it  myself.  {Takes  it  off 
quickly) . 

(The  Mother,  who  watches  the  progress  of  the  scene 
with  The  Son  and  the  other  two  children  who  cling  to  her, 
is  on  thorns;  and  follows  with  varying  expressions  of  sorrow, 
indignation,  anxiety,  and  horror  the  words  and  actions  of  the 
other  two.  From  time  to  time  she  hides  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  sobs). 

The  Mother.    Oh,  my  God,  my  God ! 

The  Father  {playing  his  part  with  a  touch  of  gallantry). 
Give  it  to  me!    I'll  put  it  down  {takes  hat  from  her  hands). 


46  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

But  a  dear  little  head  like  yours  ought  to  have  a  smarter  hat. 
Come  and  help  me  choose  one  from  the  stock,  won't  you? 

L'Ingenue  {interrupting).  I  say  .  .  .  those  are  our 
hats  you  know. 

The  Manager  {furious).  Silence!  silence!  Don't  try 
and  be  funny,  if  you  please  .  .  .  We're  playing  the  scene 
now  I'd  have  you  notice.  {To  the  Step-Daughtei).  Begin 
again,  please! 

The  Step-Daughter  {continuing) .    No  thank  you,  sir. 

The  Father.  Oh,  come  now.  Don't  talk  like  that. 
You  must  take  it.  I  shall  be  upset  if  you  don't.  There  arc 
some  lovely  little  hats  here;  and  then — Madame  will  be 
pleased.     She  expects  it,  anyway,  you  know. 

The  Step-Daughter.    No,  no!     I  couldn't  wear  it! 

The  Father.  Oh,  you're  thinking  about  what  they'd 
say  at  home  if  they  saw  you  come  in  with  a  new  hat  ?  My 
dear  girl,  there's  always  a  way  round  these  little  matters,  you 
know. 

The  Step-Daughter  {all  keyed  up).  No,  it's  not  that. 
I  couldn't  wear  it  because  I  am  ...  as  you  see  .  ,  .  you 
might  have  noticed  .  .  .    {showing  her  black  dress). 

The  Father.  ...  in  mourning!  Of  course:  I  beg 
your  pardon:     I'm  frightfully  sorry  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter  {forcing  herself  to  conquer  her 
indignation  and  nausea).  Stop!  Stop!  It's  I  who  must 
thank  you.  There's  no  need  for  you  to  feel  mortified  or 
specially  sorry.  Don't  think  any  more  of  what  I've  said. 
{Tries  to  smile).     I  must  forget  that  I  am  dressed  so  .  .  . 

The  Manager  {interrupting  and  turning  to  the  Promp- 
ter). Stop  a  minute!  Stop!  Don't  write  that  down.  Cut 
out  that  last  bit.  {Then  to  the  Father  and  Step-Daughter). 
Fine!  it's  going  fine!  {To  the  Father  only).  And  now  you 
can  go  on  as  we  arranged.  {To  the  actors).  Pretty  good 
that  scene,  where  he  offers  her  the  hat,  eh? 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  47 

The  Step-Daughter.  The  best's  coming  now.  Why 
can't  we  go  on? 

The  Manager.  Have  a  little  patience!  {To  the  actors) : 
Of  course,  it  must  be  treated  rather  lightly. 

Leading  Man.    Still,  with  a  bit  of  go  in  it! 

Leading  Lady.  Of  course!  It's  easy  enough!  (To 
Leading  Man )  :   Shall  you  and  I  try  it  now  ? 

Leading  Man.  Why,  yes!  I'll  prepare  my  entrance. 
(Exit  in  order  to  make  his  entrance). 

The  Manager  {to  Leading  Lady).  See  here!  The 
scene  between  you  and  Madame  Pace  is  finished.  I'll  have 
it  written  out  properly  after.  You  remain  here  .  .  .  oh, 
where  are  you  going  ? 

Leading  Lady.  One  minute.  I  want  to  put  my  hat  on 
again  {goes  over  to  hat-rack  and  puts  her  hat  on  her  head). 

The  Manager.  Good!  You  stay  here  with  your  head 
bowed  down  a  bit. 

The  Step-Daughter.    But  she  isn't  dressed  in  black. 

Leading  Lady.  But  I  shall  be,  and  much  more  effec- 
tively than  you. 

The  Manager  {to  Step-Daughter).  Be  quiet  please, 
and  watch!  You'll  be  able  to  learn  something.  {Clapping 
his  hands)  Come  on!  come  on!     Entrance,  please! 

( The  door  at  rear  of  stage  opens,  and  the  Leading  Man 
enters  with  the  lively  manner  of  an  old  gallant.  The  render- 
ing of  the  scene  by  the  actors  from  the  very  first  words  is 
seen  to  be  quite  a  different  thing,  though  it  has  not  in  any  way 
the  air  of  a  parody.  Naturally,  the  Step-Daughter  and  the 
Father,  not  being  able  to  recognize  themselves  in  the  Leading 
Lady  and  the  Leading  Man,  who  deliver  their  words  in  dif- 
ferent tones  and  with  a  different  psychology,  express,  some- 
times with  smiles,  sometimes  with  gestures,  the  impression 
they  receive). 

Leading  Man.    Good  afternoon,  Miss  .  .  . 


48  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

The  Father  {at  once  unable  to  contain  himself).  No! 
no! 

(The  Step-Daughter  noticing  the  way  the  Leading 
Man  enters,  bursts  out  laughing). 

The  Manager  {furious).  Silence!  And  you  please 
just  stop  that  laughing.  If  we  go  on  like  this,  we  shall 
never  finish. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Forgive  me,  sir,  but  it's  natural 
enough.  This  lady  {indicating  Leading  Lady)  stands  there 
still ;  but  if  she  is  supposed  to  be  me,  I  can  assure  you  that  if 
I  heard  anyone  say  "Good  afternoon"  in  that  manner  and  in 
that  tone,  I  should  burst  out  laughing  as  I  did. 

The  Father.    Yes,  yes,  the  manner,  the  tone  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Nonsense!  Rubbish!  Stand  aside 
and  let  me  see  the  action. 

Leading  Man.  If  I've  got  to  represent  an  old  fellow 
who's  coming  into  a  house  of  an  equivocal  character  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Don't  listen  to  them,  for  Heaven's 
sake!  Do  it  again!  It  goes  fine.  {Waiting  for  the  actors 
to  begin  again )  :     Well  ? 

Leading  Man.     Good  afternoon,  Miss. 

Leading  Lady.    Good  afternoon. 

Leading  Man  {imitating  the  gesture  of  the  Father  when 
he  looked  under  the  hat,  and  then  expressing  quite  clearly 
first  satisfaction  and  then  fear).  Ah,  but  ...  I  say  .  .  . 
this  is  not  the  first  time  that  you  have  come  here,  is  it? 

The  Manager.  Good,  but  not  quite  so  heavily.  Like 
this  {acts  himself)  :  "This  isn't  the  first  time  that  you  have 
come  here"  ...  {To  Leading  Lady)  And  you  say:  "No, 
sir." 

Leading  Lady.    No,  sir. 

Leading  Man.  You've  been  here  before,  more  than 
once. 

The  Manager.    No,  no,  stop!    Let  her  nod  "yes"  first. 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  49 

"YouVe  been  here  before,  eh?"  {The  Leading  Lady  lifts 
up  her  head  slightly  and  closes  her  eyes  as  though  in  disgust. 
Then  she  inclines  her  head  twice). 

The  Step-Daughter  {unable  to  contain  herself).  Oh 
my  God  !  {Puts  a  hand  to  her  mouth  to  prevent  herself  from 
laughing). 

The  Manager  {turning  round).    What's  the  matter? 

The  Step-Daughter.    Nothing,  nothing! 

The  Manager  {to  Leading  Man).    Go  on! 

Leading  Man.  You've  been  here  before,  eh?  Well 
then,  there's  no  need  to  be  so  shy,  is  there?  May  I  take  off 
your  hat? 

(The  Leading  Man  says  this  last  speech  in  such  a  tone 
and  with  such  gestures  that  the  Step-Daughter,  though  she 
has  her  hand  to  her  mouth,  cannot  keep  from  laughing) , 

Leading  Lady  {indignant) .  I'm  not  going  to  stop  here 
to  be  made  a  fool  of  by  that  woman  there. 

Leading  Man.    Neither  am  I!    I'm  through  with  it! 

The  Manager  {shouting  to  Step-Daughter) ,  Silence! 
for  once  and  all,  I  tell  you! 

The  Step-Daughter.    Forgive  me!  forgive  me! 

The  Manager.  You  haven't  any  manners:  that's  what 
it  is!    You  go  too  far. 

The  Father  {endeavouring  to  intervene).  Yes,  it's 
true,  but  excuse  her  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Excuse  what?  It's  absolutely  dis- 
gusting. 

The  Father.  Yes,  sir,  but  believe  me,  it  has  such  a 
strange  effect  when  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Strange?  Why  strange?  Where  is  it 
strange  ? 

The  Father.  No,  sir;  I  admire  your  actors — this  gentle- 
man here,  this  lady ;  but  they  are  certainly  not  us ! 


50  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

The  Manager.  I  should  hope  not.  Evidently  they  can- 
not be  you,  if  they  are  actors. 

The  Father.  Just  so:  actors!  Both  of  them  act  our 
parts  exceedingly  well.  But,  believe  me,  it  produces  quite 
a  different  effect  on  us.  They  want  to  be  us,  but  they 
aren't,  all  the  same. 

The  Manager.    What  is  it  then  anyway? 

The  Father.  Something  that  is  .  .  .  that  is  theirs — 
and  no  longer  ours  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  But  naturally,  inevitably.  Fve  told  you 
so  already. 

The  Father.  Yes,  I  understand  ...  I  understand  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  Well  then,  let's  have  no  more  of  it! 
{Turning  to  the  actors)  :  We'll  have  the  rehearsals  by  our- 
selves, afterwards,  in  the  ordinary  way.  I  never  could  stand 
rehearsing  with  the  author  present.  He's  never  satisfied! 
{Turning  to  Father  and  Step-Daughter)  :  Come  on!  Let's 
get  on  with  it  again ;  and  try  and  see  if  you  can't  keep  from 
laughing. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Oh,  I  shan't  laugh  any  more. 
There's  a  nice  little  bit  coming  for  me  now:  you'll  see. 

The  Manager.  Well  then:  when  she  says  "Don't  think 
any  more  of  what  I've  said.  I  must  forget,  etc.,"  you  {ad- 
dressing the  Father)  come  in  sharp  with  **I  understand,  I 
understand";  and  then  you  ask  her  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter  {interrupting) .     What? 

The  Manager.    Why  she  is  in  mourning. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Not  at  all!  See  here:  when  I 
told  him  that  it  was  useless  for  me  to  be  thinking  about  my 
wearing  mourning,  do  you  know  how  he  answered  me?  "Ah 
well,"  he  said  "then  let's  take  off  this  little  frock." 

The  Manager.  Great !  Just  what  we  want,  to  make  a 
riot  in  the  theatre! 

The  Step-Daughter.    But  it's  the  truth! 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  51 

The  Manager.  What  does  that  matter?  Acting  Is  our 
business  here.    Truth  up  to  a  certain  point,  but  no  further. 

The  Step-Daughter.     What  do  you  want  to  do  then? 

The  Manager.    You'll  see,  you'll  see!     Leave  it  to  me. 

The  Step-Daughter.  No  sir!  What  you  want  to  do 
is  to  piece  together  a  little  romantic  sentimental  scene  out  of 
my  disgust,  out  of  all  the  reasons,  each  more  cruel  and  viler 
than  the  other,  why  I  am  what  I  am.  He  is  to  ask  me  why 
I'm  in  mourning;  and  I'm  to  answer  with  tears  in  my  eyes, 
that  it  is  just  two  months  since  papa  died.  No  sir,  no!  He's 
got  to  say  to  me;  as  he  did  say:  "Well,  let's  take  off  this 
little  dress  at  once."  And  I ;  with  my  two  months'  mourning 
in  my  heart,  went  there  behind  that  screen,  and  with  these 
fingers  tingling  with  shame  .  .  . 

The  Manager  {running  his  hands  through  his  hair). 
For  Heaven's  sake!    What  are  you  saying? 

The  Step-Daughter  {crying  out  excitedly).  The  truth! 
The  truth! 

The  Manager.  It  may  be.  I  don't  deny  It,  and  I  can 
understand  all  your  horror;  but  you  must  surely  see  that 
you  can't  have  this  kind  of  thing  on  the  stage.     It  won't  go. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Not  possible,  eh?  Very  well! 
I'm  much  obliged  to  you — but  I'm  off! 

The  Manager.  Now  be  reasonable!  Don't  lose  your 
temper ! 

The  Step-Daughter.  I  won't  stop  here!  I  won't!  I 
can  see  you've  fixed  it  all  up  with  him  in  your  office.  All 
this  talk  about  what  is  possible  for  the  stage  ...  I  under- 
stand !  He  wants  to  get  at  his  complicated  "cerebral  drama," 
to  have  his  famous  remorses  and  torments  acted ;  but  I  want 
to  act  my  part,  my  part! 

The  Manager  {annoyed,  shaking  his  shoulders).  Ah! 
Just  your  part!  But,  if  you  will  pardon  me,  there  are  other 
parts  than  yours:   His  {indicating  the  Father)  and  hers  (in- 


52  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

dicating  the  Mother)  \  On  the  stage  you  can't  have  a  char- 
acter becoming  too  prominent  and  overshadowing  all  the 
others.  The  thing  is  to  pack  them  all  into  a  neat  little  frame- 
vt^ork  and  then  act  what  is  actable.  I  am  aware  of  the  fact  that 
everyone  has  his  own  interior  life  which  he  wants  very  much 
to  put  forward.  But  the  difficulty  lies  in  this  fact:  to  set 
out  just  so  much  as  is  necessary  for  the  stage,  taking  the  other 
characters  into  consideration,  and  at  the  same  time  hint  at 
the  unrevealed  interior  life  of  each.  I  am  willing  to  admit, 
xny  dear  young  lady,  that  from  your  point  of  view  it  would 
be  a  fine  idea  if  each  character  could  tell  the  public  all  his 
troubles  in  a  nice  monologue  or  a  regular  one  hour  lecture 
{good  humoredly) ,  You  must  restrain  yourself,  my  dear, 
and  in  your  own  interest,  too ;  because  this  fury  of  yours,  this 
exaggerated  disgust  you  show,  may  make  a  bad  impression, 
you  know.  After  you  have  confessed  to  me  that  there  were 
others  before  him  at  Madame  Pace's  and  more  than 
once  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter  {bowing  her  head,  impressed). 
It's  true.  But  remember  those  others  mean  him  for  me  all 
the  same. 

The  Manager  {not  understanding).  What?  The 
others?    What  do  you  mean? 

The  Step-Daughter.  For  one  who  has  gone  wrong, 
sir,  he  who  was  responsible  for  the  first  fault  is  responsible  for 
all  that  follow.  He  is  responsible  for  my  faults,  was,  even 
tefore  I  was  born.    Look  at  him,  and  see  if  it  isn't  true ! 

The  Manager.  Well,  well !  And  does  the  weight  of  so 
much  responsibility  seem  nothing  to  you  ?  Give  him  a  chance 
to  act  it,  to  get  it  over ! 

The  Step-Daughter.  How?  How  can  he  act  all  his 
**noble  remorses"  all  his  "moral  torments,"  if  you  want  to 
spare  him  the  horror  of  being  discovered  one  day — after  he 
had  asked  her  what  he  did  ask  her — in  the  arms  of  her,  that 


[Act  II]  SIX    CHARACTERS  53 

already  fallen  woman,  that  child,  sir,  that  child  he  used  to 
watch  come  out  of  school?     {She  is  moved). 

(The  Mother  at  this  point  is  overcome  with  emotion, 
and  breaks  out  into  a  fit  of  crying.  All  are  touched.  A 
long  pause) . 

The  Step-Daughter  {as  soon  as  the  Mother  becomes 
a  little  quieter  J  adds  resolutely  and  gravely).  At  present, 
we  are  unknown  to  the  public.  Tomorrow,  you  will  act  us 
»s  you  wish,  treating  us  in  your  own  manner.  But  do  you 
really  want  to  see  drama,  do  you  want  to  see  it  flash  out  as 
it  really  did? 

The  Manager.  Of  course!  That's  just  what  I  do 
want,  so  I  can  use  as  much  of  it  as  is  possible. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Well  then,  ask  that  Mother  there 
to  leave  us. 

The  Mother  {changing  her  lozv  plaint  into  a  sharp  cry). 
No!    No!     Don't  permit  it,  sir,  don't  permit  it! 

The  Manager.    But  it's  only  to  try  it. 

The  Mother.    I  can't  bear  ft.    I  can't. 

The  Manager.  But  since  it  has  happened  already  .  .  . 
I  don't  understand! 

The  Mother.  It's  taking  place  now.  It  happens  all  the 
time.  My  torment  isn't  a  pretended  one.  I  live  and  feel 
every  minute  of  my  torture.  Those  two  children  there — 
have  you  heard  them  speak?  They  can't  speak  any  more. 
They  cling  to  me  to  keep  my  torment  actual  and  vivid  for 
me.  But  for  themselves,  they  do  not  exist,  they  aren't  any 
more.  And  she  {indicating  Step-Daughter)  has  run  away, 
she  has  left  me,  and  is  lost.  If  I  now  see  her  here  before 
me,  it  is  only  to  renew  for  me  the  tortures  I  have  suffered 
for  her  too. 

The  Father.  The  eternal  moment!  She  {indicating 
the  Step-Daughter)  is  here  to  catch  me,  fix  me,  and  hold  me 
eternally  in  the  stocks  for  that  one  fleeting  and  shameful 


54  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  II] 

moment  of  my  life.     She  can't  give  it  up!     And  you  sir, 
cannot  either  fairly  spare  me  it. 

The  Manager.  I  never  said  I  didn't  want  to  act  it. 
It  vi^ill  form,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  nucleus  of  the  whole 
first  act  right  up  to  her  surprise  {indicates  the  (Mother). 

The  Father.  Just  so!  This  is  my  punishment:  the 
passion  in  all  of  us  that  must  culminate  in  her  final  cry. 

The  Step-Daughter.  I  can  hear  it  still  in  my  ears. 
It's  driven  me  mad,  that  cry! — You  can  put  me  on  as  you 
like;  it  doesn't  matter.  Fully  dressed,  if  you  like — pro- 
vided I  have  at  least  the  arm  bare;  because,  standing  like 
this  {she  goes  close  to  the  Father  and  leans  her  head  on  his 
breast)  with  my  head  so,  and  my  arms  round  his  neck,  I  saw 
a  vein  pulsing  in  my  arm  here ;  and  then,  as  if  that  live  vein 
had  awakened  disgust  in  me,  I  closed  my  eyes  like  this,  and 
let  my  head  sink  on  his  breast.  {Turning  to  the  Mother), 
Cry  out  mother!  Cry  out!  {Buries  head  in  Father s  breast, 
and  with  her  shoulders  raised  as  if  to  prevent  her  hearing  the 
cry,  adds  in  tones  of  intense  emotion)  :  Cry  out  as  you  did 
then! 

The  Mother  {coming  forward  to  separate  them).  No! 
My  daughter,  my  daughter!  {And  after  having  pulled  her 
away  from  him)  :  You  brute!  you  brute!  She  is  my 
daughter !     Don't  you  see  she's  my  daughter  ? 

The  Manager  {walking  backwards  towards  footlights). 
Fine!  fine!   Damned  good!  And  then,  of  course — curtain! 

The  Father    {going  towards  hi?n  excitedly).     Yes,  of 
course,  because  that's  the  way  it  really  happened. 
I     The  Manager   {convinced  and  pleased).     Oh,  yes,  no 
doubt  about  it.     Curtain  here,  curtain! 

{At  the  reiterated  cry  of  The  Manager,  The  Ma- 
chinist lets  the  curtain  down,  leaving  The  Manager  and 
The  Father  in  front  of  it  before  the  footlights). 

The  Manager.    The  darned  idiot!    I  said  "curtain"  to 


I 


[Act  II]  SIX   CHARACTERS  55 

show  the  act  should  end  there,  and  he  goes  and  lets  it  down 
in  earnest  {to  the  Father,  while  he  pulls  the  curtain  back  to 
go  on  to  the  stage  again).  Yes,  yes,  it's  all  right.  Effect 
certain!  That's  the  right  ending.  I'll  guarantee  the  first 
act  at  any  rate. 


ACT    III. 

When  the  curtain  goes  up  again,  it  is  seen  that  the  stage 
hands  have  shifted  the  bit  of  scenery  used  in  the  last  part,  and 
have  rigged  up  instead  at  the  back  of  the  stage  a  drop,  with 
some  trees,  and  one  or  two  wings.  A  portion  of  a  fountain 
basin  is  visible.  The  Mother  is  sitting  on  the  Right  with  the 
two  children  by  her  side.  The  Son  is  on  the  same  side,  but 
away  from  the  others.  He  seems  bored,  angry,  and  full  of 
shame.  The  Father  and  The  Step-Daughter  are  also  seated 
towards  the  Right  front.  On  the  other  side  {Left)  are  the 
actors,  much  in  the  positions  they  occupied  before  the  curtain 
was  lowered.  Only  the  Manager  is  standing  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  stage,  with  his  hand  closed  over  his  mouth  in 
the  act  of  meditating. 

The  Manager  {shaking  his  shoulders  after  a  brief 
pause).  Ah  yes:  the  second  act!  Leave  it  to  me,  leave  it 
all  to  me  as  wt  arranged,  and  you'll  see!     It'll  go  fine! 

The  Step-Daughter.  Our  entry  into  his  house  {indi- 
cates Father)  in  spite  of  him  {indicates  the  Son)    .  .  . 

The  Manager  {out  of  patience).  Leave  it  to  me,  I  tell 
you! 

The  Step-Daughter.  Do  let  it  be  clear,  at  any  rate, 
that  it  is  in  spite  of  my  w^ishes. 

The  Mother  {from  her  corner,  shaking  her  head).  For 
all  the  good  that's  come  of  it  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter  {turning  towards  her  quickly). 
It  doesn't  matter.  The  more  harm  done  us,  the  more  re- 
morse for  him. 

The  Manager  {impatiently).  I  understand!  Good 
Heavens!     I  understand!    I'm  taking  it  into  account. 

56 


[Act  III]  SIX    CHARACTERS  57 

The  Mother  {suppUcatingly) .  I  beg  you,  sir,  to  let  it 
appear  quite  plain  that  for  conscience  sake  I  did  try  in  every 
way  .  .  . 

The  Step-Daughter  {interrupting  indignantly  and  con- 
tinuing for  the  Mother).  ...  to  pacify  me,  to  dissuade  me 
from  spiting  him.  ( To  Manager) .  Do  as  she  wants :  satisfy 
her,  because  it  is  true!  I  enjoy  it  immensely.  Anyhow,  as 
you  can  see,  the  meeker  she  is,  the  more  she  tries  to  get  at 
his  heart,  the  more  distant  and  aloof  does  he  become. 

The  Manager.  Are  we  going  to  begin  this  second  act 
or  not? 

The  Step-Daughter.  I'm  not  going  to  talk  any  more 
now.  But  I  must  tell  you  this:  you  can't  have  the  whole 
action  take  place  in  the  garden,  as  you  suggest.  It  isn't 
possible ! 

The  Manager.    Why  not? 

The  Step-Daughter.  Because  he  {indicates  the  Son 
again)  is  always  shut  up  alone  in  his  room.  And  then  there's 
all  the  part  of  that  poor  dazed-looking  boy  there  which  takes 
place  indoors. 

The  Manager.  Maybe!  On  the  other  hand,  you  will 
understand — we  can't  change  scenes  three  or  four  times  in 
one  act. 

The  Leading  Man.    They  used  to  once. 

The  Manager.  Yes,  when  the  public  was  up  to  the 
level  of  that  child  there. 

The  Leading  Lady.  It  makes  the  illusion  easier. 

The  Father  {irritated).  The  illusion!  For  Heaven's 
sake,  don't  say  illusion.  Please  don't  use  that  word,  which  is 
particularly  painful  for  us. 

The  Manager  {astounded).    And  why,  if  you  please? 

The  Father.  It's  painful,  cruel,  really  cruel;  and  you 
ought  to  understand  that. 

The  Manager.     But  why?     What  ought  we  to  say 


58  SIX   CHARACTERS  LAct  lllj 

then?  The  illusion,  I  tell  you,  sir,  which  we've  got  to 
create  for  the  audience  .  .  . 

The  Leading  Man.    With  our  acting. 

The  Manager.    The  illusion  of  a  reality. 

The  Father.  I  understand;  but  you,  perhaps,  do  not 
understand  us.  Forgive  me!  You  see  .  .  .  here  for  you 
and  your  actors,  the  thing  is  only — and  rightly  so  .  .  . 
a  kind  of  game  .  .  . 

The  Leading  Lady  {interrupting  indignantly).  A 
game!  We're  not  children  here,  if  you  please!  We  are 
serious  actors. 

The  Father.  I  don't  deny  it.  What  I  mean  is  the 
game,  or  play,  of  your  art,  which  has  to  give,  as  the  gentle- 
man says,  a  perfect  illusion  of  reality. 

The  Manager.    Precisely — ! 

The  Father.  Now,  if  you  consider  the  fact  that  we 
{indicates  himself  and  the  other  five  Characters) ,  as  we  are, 
have  no  other  reality  outside  of  this  illusion  .  .  . 

The  Manager  {astonished,  looking  at  his  actors,  who 
are  also  amazed) .    And  what  does  that  mean  ? 

The  Father  {after  watching  them  for  a  moment  with  a 
wan  smile).  As  I  say,  sir,  that  which  is  a  game  of  art  for 
you  is  our  sole  reality.  {BHef  pause.  He  goes  a  step  or  two 
nearer  the  Manager  and  adds)  :  But  not  only  for  us,  you 
know,  by  the  way.  Just  you  think  it  over  well.  {Looks  him 
in  the  eyes).    Can  you  tell  me  who  you  are? 

The  Manager  {perplexed,  half  smiling) .  What?  Who 
am  I  ?    I  am  myself. 

The  Father.  And  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  that  isn't 
true,  because  you  are  I  .  .  .    ? 

The  Manager.  I  should  say  you  were  mad — !  {The 
Mtors  laugh). 

The  Father.  You're  quite  right  to  laugh:  because  we 
are  all  making  believe  here  {to  Manager).     And  you  can 


[Act  III]  SIX    CHARACTERS  59 

therefore  object  that  it's  only  for  a  joke  that  that  gentle- 
man there  {indicates  the  Leading  Man),  who  naturally  is 
himself,  has  to  be  me,  who  am  on  the  contrary  myself — this 
thing  you  see  here.  You  see  I've  caught  you  in  a  trap !  ( The 
actors  laugh). 

The  Manager  {annoyed).  But  we've  had  all  this  over 
once  before.     Do  you  want  to  begin  again? 

The  Father.  No,  no!  That  wasn't  my  meaning!  In 
fact,  I  should  like  to  request  you  to  abandon  this  game  of  art 
{looking  at  the  Leading  Lady  as  if  anticipating  her)  which 
you  are  accustomed  to  play  here  with  your  actors,  and  to 
ask  you  seriously  once  again:  who  are  you? 

The  Manager  {astonished  and  irritated,  turning  to  his 
actors).  If  this  fellow  here  hasn't  got  a  nerve!  A  man  who 
calls  himself  a  character  comes  and  asks  me  who  I  am ! 

The  Father  {with  dignity,  but  not  offended).  A  char- 
acter, sir,  may  always  asks  a  man  who  he  is.  Because  a 
character  has  really  a  life  of  his  own,  marked  with  his 
especial  characteristics;  for  which  reason  he  is  always  "some- 
body." But  a  man — I'm  not  speaking  of  you  now- — may 
very  well  be  "nobody." 

The  Manager.  Yes,  but  you  are  asking  these  questions 
of  me,  the  boss,  the  manager !    Do  you  understand  ? 

The  Father.  But  only  in  order  to  know  if  you,  as  you 
really  are  now,  see  yourself  as  you  once  were  with  all  the 
illusions  that  were  yours  then,  with  all  the  things  both  inside 
and  outside  of  you  as  they  seemed  to  you — as  they  were  then 
indeed  for  you.  Well,  sir,  if  you  think  of  all  those  illusions 
that  mean  nothing  to  you  now,  of  all  those  things  which 
don't  even  seem  to  you  to  exist  any  more,  while  once  they 
were  for  you,  don't  you  feel  that — I  won't  say  these  boards — 
but  the  very  earth  under  your  feet  is  sinking  away  from  you 
when  you  reflect  that  in  the  same  way  this  you  as  you  feel  it 


60  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  IIIj 

today — all  this  present  reality  of  yours — is  fated  to  seem  a 
mere  illusion  to  you  tomorrow  ? 

The  Manager  (without  having  understood  much,  but 
astonished  by  the  specious  argument).  Well,  well!  And 
where  does  all  this  take  us  anyway? 

The  Father.  Oh,  nowhere!  It's  only  to  show  you  that 
if  we  {indicating  the  Characters)  have  no  other  reality  be- 
yond the  illusion,  you  too  must  not  count  overmuch  on  your 
reality  as  you  feel  it  today,  since,  like  that  of  yesterday,  it 
may  prove  an  illusion  for  you  tomorrow. 

The  Manager  {determining  to  make  fun  of  him).  Ah, 
excellent!  Then  you'll  be  saying  next  that  you,  wuth  this 
comedy  of  yours  that  you  brought  here  to  act,  are  truer  and 
more  real  than  I  am. 

The  Father  {with  the  greatest  seriousness).  But  of 
course ;  without  doubt ! 

The  Manager.    Ah,  really? 

The  Father.  Why,  I  thought  you'd  understand  that 
from  the  beginning. 

The  Manager.    More  real  than  I  ? 

The  Father.  If  your  reality  can  change  from  one  day 
to  another  .  .  . 

The  Manager.  But  everyone  knows  it  can  change.  It 
is  always  changing,  the  same  as  anyone  else's. 

The  Father  {with  a  cry).  No,  sir,  not  ours!  Look 
here!  That  is  the  very  difference!  Our  reality  doesn't 
change:  it  can't  change!  It  can't  be  other  than  w^hat  it  is, 
because  it  is  already  fixed  for  ever.  It's  terrible.  Ours  is 
an  immutable  reality  which  should  make  you  shudder  when 
you  approach  us  if  you  are  really  conscious  of  the  fact  that 
your  reality  is  a  mere  transitory  and  fleeting  illusion,  taking 
this  form  today  and  that  tomorrow,  according  to  the  condi- 
tions, according  to  your  will,  your  sentiments,  which  in  turn 
are  controlled  by  an  intellect  that  shows  them  to  you  today 


[Act  III]  SIX    CHARACTERS  61 

in  one  manner  and  tomorrow  .  .  .  who  knows  how?  .  .  . 
Illusions  of  reality  represented  in  this  fatuous  comedy  of  life 
that  never  ends,  nor  can  ever  end!  Because  if  tomorrow  it 
were  to  end  .  .  .  then  why,  all  would  be  finished. 

The  Manager.  Oh  for  God's  sake,  will  you  at  least 
finish  with  this  philosophizing  and  let  us  try  and  shape  this 
comedy  which  you  yourself  have  brought  me  here?  You 
argue  and  philosophize  a  bit  too  much,  my  dear  sir.  You 
know  you  seem  to  me  almost,  almost  .  .  .  {Stops  and  looks 
him  over  from  head  to  foot).  Ah,  by  the  way,  I  think  you 
introduced  yourself  to  me  as  a — what  shall  ...  we  say — 
a  ''character,"  created  by  an  author  who  did  not  afterward 
care  to  make  a  drama  of  his  own  creations. 

The  Father.    It  is  the  simple  truth,  sir. 

The  Manager.  Nonsense!  Cut  that  out,  please!  None 
of  us  believes  it,  because  it  isn't  a  thing,  as  you  must  recognize 
yourself,  which  one  can  believe  seriously.  If  you  want  to 
know,  it  seems  to  me  you  are  tr>^ing  to  imitate  the  manner 
of  a  certain  author  whom  I  heartily  detest — I  warn  you — 
although  I  have  unfortunately  bound  myself  to  put  on  one 
of  his  works.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  just  starting  to 
rehearse  it,  when  you  arrived.  {Turning  to  the  actors): 
And  this  is  what  we've  gained — out  of  the  frying-pan  into 
the  fire! 

The  Father.  I  don't  know  to  what  author  you  may  be 
alluding,  but  believe  me  I  feel  what  I  think;  and  I  seem  to 
be  philosophizing  only  for  those  who  do  not  think  what  they 
feel,  because  they  blind  themselves  with  their  own  sentiment. 
I  know  that  for  many  people  this  self-blinding  seems  much 
more  "human";  but  the  contrary  is  really  true.  For  man 
never  reasons  so  much  and  becomes  so  introspective  as  when 
he  suffers ;  since  he  is  anxious  to  get  at  the  cause  of  his  suffer- 
ings, to  learn  who  has  produced  them,  and  whether  it  is  just 
or  unjust  that  he  should  have  to  bear  them.     On  the  other 


62  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  III] 

hand,  when  he  is  happy,  he  takes  his  happiness  as  It  comes 
and  doesn't  analyse  it,  just  as  if  happiness  were  his  right. 
The  animals  suffer  without  reasoning  about  their  sufferings. 
But  take  the  case  of  a  man  who  suffers  and  begins  to  reason 
about  it.  Oh  no !  it  can't  be  allowed !  Let  him  suffer  like 
an  animal,  and  then — ah  yes,  he  is  "human!" 

The  Manager.  Look  here!  Look  here!  You're  off 
again,  philosophizing  worse  than  ever. 

The  Father.  Because  I  suffer,  sir!  I'm  not  philosophiz- 
ing:  I'm  crying  aloud  the  reason  of  my  sufferings. 

The  Manager  {makes  brusque  movement  as  he  is  taken 
with  a  new  idea).  I  should  like  to  know  if  anyone  has  ever 
heard  of  a  character  who  gets  right  out  of  his  part  and 
perorates  and  speechifies  as  you  do.  Have  you  ever  heard  of 
a  case?    I  haven't. 

The  Father.  You  have  never  met  such  a  case,  sir, 
because  authors,  as  a  rule,  hide  the  labour  of  their  creations. 
When  the  characters  are  really  alive  before  their  author,  the 
latter  does  nothing  but  follow  them  in  their  action,  in  their 
words,  in  the  situations  which  they  suggest  to  him;  and  he 
has  to  will  them  the  way  they  will  themselves — for  there's 
trouble  if  he  doesn't.  When  a  character  is  born,  he  acquires 
at  once  such  an  independence,  even  of  his  own  author,  that 
he  can  be  imagined  by  everybody  even  in  many  other  situa- 
tions where  the  author  never  dreamed  of  placing  him;  and 
so  he  acquires  for  himself  a  meaning  which  the  author  never 
thought  of  giving  him. 

The  Manager.    Yes,  yes,  I  know  this. 

The  Father.  What  is  there  then  to  marvel  at  in  us? 
Imagine  such  a  misfortune  for  characters  as  I  have  described 
to  you :  to  be  born  of  an  author's  fantasy,  and  be  denied  life 
by  him;  and  then  answer  me  if  these  characters  left  alive, 
and  yet  without  life,  weren't  right  in  doing  what  they  did 
do  and  are  doing  now,  after  they  have  attempted  everything 


I 


[Act  III]  SIX   CHARACTERS  63 

in  their  power  to  persuade  him  to  give  them  their  stage 
life.  We've  all  tried  him  in  turn,  I,  she  {indicating  the 
Step-Daughter)   and  she  (indicating  the  Mother). 

The  Step-Daughter.  It's  true.  I  too  have  sought 
to  tempt  him,  many,  many  times,  w^hen  he  has  been  sitting 
at  his  writing  table,  feeling  a  bit  melancholy,  at  the  twilight 
hour.  He  would  sit  in  his  armchair  too  lazy  to  switch 
on  the  light,  and  all  the  shadows  that  crept  into  his  room 
were  full  of  our  presence  coming  to  tempt  him.  {As  if  she 
saw  herself  still  there  by  the  writing  table^  and  was  annoyed 
by  the  presence  of  the  actors)  :  Oh,  if  you  would  only  go 
away,  go  away  and  leave  us  alone — mother  here  with  that 
son  of  hers — I  with  that  Child — that  Boy  there  always  alone 
— and  then  I  with  him  {just  hints  at  the  Father) — and  then 
I  alone,  alone  ...  in  those  shadows!  {Makes  a  sudden 
movement  as  if  in  the  vision  she  has  of  herself  illuminating 
those  shadows  she  wanted  to  seize  hold  of  herself).  Ah!  my 
life!  my  life!  Oh,  what  scenes  we  proposed  to  him — and 
I  tempted  him  more  than  any  of  the  others! 

The  Father.  Maybe.  But  perhaps  it  was  your  fault 
that  he  refused  to  give  us  life:  because  you  were  too  insistent, 
too  troublesome. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Nonsense!  Didn't  he  make  me 
so  himself?  {Goes  close  to  the  Manager  to  tell  him  as  if  in 
confidence).  In  my  opinion  he  abandoned  us  in  a  fit  of 
depression,  of  disgust  for  the  ordinary  theatre  as  the  public 
knows  it  and  likes  it. 

The  Son.    Exactly  what  it  was,  sir ;  exactly  that ! 

The  Father.  Not  at  all!  Don't  believe  it  for  a  minute. 
Listen  to  me!  You'll  be  doing  quite  right  to  modify,  as 
you  suggest,  the  excesses  both  of  this  girl  here,  who  wants 
to  do  too  much,  and  of  this  young  man,  who  won't  do  any- 
thing at  all. 

The  Son.    No,  nothing! 


64  SIX    CHARACTERS  [Act  III] 

The  Manager.  You  too  get  over  the  mark  occasionally, 
my  dear  sir,  if  I  may  say  so. 

The  Father.    I?    When?    Where? 

The  Manager.  Always!  Continuously!  Then  there's 
this  insistence  of  yours  in  trying  to  make  us  believe  you  arc 
a  character.  And  then  too,  you  must  really  argue  and 
philosophize  less,  you  know,  much  less. 

The  Father.  Well,  if  you  want  to  take  away  from  me 
the  possibility  of  representing  the  torment  of  my  spirit  which 
never  gives  me  peace,  you  will  be  suppressing  me :  that's  all. 
Every  true  man,  sir,  who  is  a  little  above  the  level  of  the 
beasts  and  plants  does  not  live  for  the  sake  of  living,  without 
knowing  how  to  live;  but  he  lives  so  as  to  give  a  meaning 
and  a  value  of  his  own  to  life.  For  me  this  is  everything.  I 
cannot  give  up  this,  just  to  represent  a  mere  fact  as  she 
{indicating  the  Step-Daughter)  wants.  It's  all  very  well  for 
her,  since  her  "vendetta"  lies  in  the  "fact."  Fm  not  going 
to  do  it.     It  destroys  my  raison  d'etre. 

The  Manager.  Your  raison  d'etre!  Oh,  we're  going 
ahead  fine!  First  she  starts  off,  and  then  you  jump  in.  At 
this  rate,  we'll  never  finish. 

The  Father.  Now,  don't  be  offended!  Have  it  your 
own  way — provided,  however,  that  within  the  limits  of  the 
parts  you  assign  us  each  one's  sacrifice  isn't  too  great. 

The  Manager.  You've  got  to  understand  that  you  can't 
go  on  arguing  at  your  own  pleasure.  Drama  is  action,  sir, 
action  and  not  confounded  philosophy. 

The  Father.  All  right.  I'll  do  just  as  much  arguing 
and  philosophizing  as  everybody  does  when  he  is  considering 
his  own  torments. 

The  Manager.  If  the  drama  permits!  But  for  Heaven's 
sake,  man,  let's  get  along  and  come  to  the  scene. 

The  Step-Daughter.  It  seems  to  me  we've  got  too 
much   action   with   our   coming   into   his.  house    {indicating 


[Act  III]  SIX    CHARACTERS  65 

Father) »  You  said,  before,  you  couldn't  change  the  scene 
every  five  minutes. 

The  Manager.  Of  course  not.  What  vre've  got  to  do 
is  to  combine  and  group  up  all  the  facts  in  one  simultane- 
ous, close-knit,  action.  We  can't  have  it  as  you  want,  with 
your  little  brother  wandering  like  a  ghost  from  room  to 
room,  hiding  behind  doors  and  meditating  a  project  which — 
what  did  you  say  it  did  to  him  ? 

The  Step-Daughter.  Consumes  him,  sir,  wastes  him 
away! 

The  Manager.  Well,  it  may  be.  And  then  at  the 
same  time,  you  want  the  little  girl  there  to  be  playing  in  the 
garden  .  .  .  one  in  the  house,  and  the  other  in  the  garden: 
isn't  that  it? 

The  Step-Daughter.  Yes,  in  the  sun,  in  the  sun !  That 
is  my  only  pleasure:  to  see  her  happy  and  careless  in  the 
garden  after  the  misery  and  squalor  of  the  horrible  room 
where  we  all  four  slept  together.  And  I  had  to  sleep  with 
her — I,  do  you  understand? — with  my  vile  contaminated 
body  next  to  hers;  with  her  folding  me  fast  in  her  loving 
little  arms.  In  the  garden,  whenever  she  spied  me,  she 
would  run  to  take  me  by  the  hand.  She  didn't  care  for  the 
big  flowers,  only  the  little  ones;  and  she  loved  to  show  me 
them  and  pet  me. 

The  Manager.  Well  then,  we'll  have  it  in  the  garden. 
Everything  shall  happen  in  the  garden;  and  we'll  group  the 
other  scenes  there.  {Calls  a  stage  hand).  Here,  a  back- 
cloth  with  trees  and  something  to  do  as  a  fountain  basin. 
{Turning  round  to  look  at  the  back  of  the  stage).  Ah, 
you've  fixed  it  up.  Good!  {To  Step-Daughter).  This  is 
just  to  give  an  idea,  of  course.  The  Boy,  instead  of  hiding 
behind  the  doors,  will  wander  about  here  in  the  garden, 
hiding  behind  the  trees.  But  it's  going  to  be  rather  difficult 
to  find  a  child  to  do  that  scene  with  you  where  she  shows 


66  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  III] 

you  the  flowers.  {Turning  to  the  Youth).  Come  forward 
a  little,  will  you  please?  Let's  try  it  now!  Come  along! 
come  along!  (Then  seeing  him  come  shyly  forward,  full  of 
fear  and  looking  lost).  It's  a  nice  business,  this  lad  here* 
What's  the  matter  with  him?  We'll  have  to  give  him  a 
word  or  two  to  say.  {Goes  close  to  him,  puts  a  hand  on  his 
shoulders,  and  leads  him  behind  one  of  the  trees).  Come 
on !  come  on !  Let  me  see  you  a  little !  Hide  here  .  .  .  yes, 
like  that.  Try  and  show  your  head  just  a  little  as  if  you 
were  looking  for  someone  .  .  .  {Goes  back  to  observe  the 
effect,  when  the  Boy  at  once  goes  through  the  action).  Ex- 
cellent! fine!  {Turning  to  Step-Daughter).  Suppose  the 
little  girl  there  were  to  surprise  him  as  he  looks  round,  and 
run  over  to  him,  so  we  could  give  him  a  word  or  two  to 
say? 

The  Step-Daughter.  It's  useless  to  hope  he  will  speak, 
as  long  as  that  fellow  there  is  here  .  .  .  {Indicates  the  Son), 
You  must  send  him  away  first. 

The  Son  {jumping  up.)  Delighted!  delighted!  I  don't 
ask  for  anything  better.     {Begins  to  move  away). 

The  Manager  {at  once  stopping  him).  No!  No! 
Where  are  you  going  ?    Wait  a  bit ! 

( The  Mother  gets  up  alarmed  and  terrified  at  the  thought 
that  he  is  really  about  to  go  away.  Instinctively  she  lifts  her 
arms  to  prevent  him,  without,  however,  leaving  her  seat). 

The  Son  {to  Manager  who  stops  him).  I've  got  nothing 
to  do  with  this  affair.    Let  me  go  please !    Let  me  go ! 

The  Manager.  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  you've 
got  nothing  to  do  with  this? 

The  Step-Daughter  (calmly,  with  irony).  Don't 
bother  to  stop  him :  he  won't  go  away. 

The  Father.  He  has  to  act  the  terrible  scene  in  the 
garden  with  his  mother. 

The  Son  (suddenly  resolute  and  with  dignity).     I  shall 


[Act  III]  SIX    CHARACTERS  67 

act  nothing  at  all.  I've  said  so  from  the  very  beginning  {to 
the  Manager).     Let  me  go! 

The  Step-Daughter  {going  over  to  the  Manager), 
Allow  me?  {Puts  down  the  Managers  arm  which  is  re- 
straining the  Son).  Well,  go  away  then,  if  you  want  to! 
( The  Son  looks  at  her  with  contempt  and  hatred.  She  laughs 
and  says).  You  see,  he  can't,  he  can't  go  away!  He  is 
obliged  to  stay  here,  indissolubly  bound  to  the  chain.  If  I, 
who  fly  off  when  that  happens  which  has  to  happen,  because 
I  can't  bear  him — if  I  am  still  here  and  support  that  face 
and  expression  of  his,  you  can  well  imagine  that  he  is  unable 
to  move.  He  has  to  remain  here,  has  to  stop  with  that  nice 
father  of  his,  and  that  mother  whose  only  son  he  is.  ( Turn- 
ing to  the  Mother).  Come  on,  mother,  come  along!  {Turn- 
ing to  Manager  to  indicate  her).  You  see,  she  was  getting 
up  to  keep  him  back.  {To  the  Mother,  beckoning  her  with 
her  hand) .  Come  on !  come  on !  ( Then  to  Manager) .  You 
can  imagine  how  little  she  wants  to  show  these  actors  of 
yours  what  she  really  feels;  but  so  eager  is  she  to  get  near 
him  that  .  .  .  There,  you  see?  She  is  willing  to  act  her 
part.  {And  in  fact,  the  Mother  approaches  him;  and  as  soon 
as  the  Step-Daughter  has  finished  speaking,  opens  her  arms 
to  signify  that  she  consents). 

The  Son  {suddenly) .  No!  no!  If  I  can't  go  away,  then 
I'll  stop  here;  but  I  repeat:  I  act  nothing! 

The  Father  {to  Manager  excitedly).  You  can  force 
him,  sir. 

The  Son.    Nobody  can  force  me. 

The  Father.    I  can. 

The  Step-Daughter.  Wait  a  minute,  wait  .  .  .  First 
of  all,  the  baby  has  to  go  to  the  fountain  .  .  .  {Runs  to  take 
the  Child  and  leads  her  to  the  fountain). 

The  Manager.  Yes,  yes  of  course;  that's  it.  Both  at. 
the  same  time. 


68  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  III] 

{The  second  Lady  Lead  and  the  Juvenile  Lead  at  this 
point  separate  themselves  from  the  group  of  actors.  One 
watches  the  Mother  attentively ;  the  other  moves  about  study- 
ing the  movements  and  manner  of  the  Son  whom  he  will 
have  to  act). 

The  Son  {to  Manager).  What  do  you  mean  by  both  at 
the  same  time?  It  isn't  right.  There  was  no  scene  between 
me  and  her.     {Indicates  the  Mother).    Ask  her  how  it  was ! 

The  Mother.  Yes,  it's  true.  I  had  come  into  his 
room  .  .  . 

The  Son.  Into  my  room,  do  you  understand?  Nothing 
to  do  with  the  garden. 

The  Manager.  It  doesn't  matter.  Haven't  I  told  you 
we've  got  to  group  the  action? 

The  Son  {observing  the  Juvenile  Lead  studying  him). 
What  do  you  want  ? 

The  Juvenile  Lead.  Nothing!  I  was  just  looking  at 
you. 

The  Son  {turning  towards  the  second  Lady  Lead).  Ah! 
she's  at  it  too:  to  re-act  her  part  {indicating  the  Mother)  I 

The  Manager.  Exactly!  And  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
ought  to  be  grateful  to  them  for  their  interest. 

The  Son.  Yes,  but  haven't  you  yet  perceived  that  it 
isn't  possible  to  live  in  front  of  a  mirror  which  not  only 
freezes  us  with  the  image  of  ourselves,  but  throws  our  like- 
ness back  at  us  with  a  horrible  grimace  ? 

The  Father.  That  is  true,  absolutely  true.  You  must 
see  that. 

The  Manager  {to  second  Lady  Lead  and  Juvenile 
Lead).    He's  right!     Move  away  from  them! 

The  Son.    Do  as  you  like.    I'm  out  of  this! 

The  Manager.  Be  quiet,  you,  will  yon?  And  let  me 
hear  your  mother!  {To  Mother),  You  were  saying  you 
had  entered  .  .  . 


tAcT  III]  SIX   CHARACTERS  69 

The  Mother.  Yes,  into  his  room,  because  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer.  I  went  to  empty  my  heart  to  him  of 
all  the  anguish  that  tortures  me  .  .  .  But  as  soon  as  he 
saw  me  come  in  .  .  . 

The  Son.  Nothing  happened!  There  was  no  scene.  I 
went  away,  that's  all !    I  don't  care  for  scenes ! 

The  Mother.    It's  true,  true.    That's  how  it  was. 

The  Manager.  Well  now,  we've  got  to  do  this  bit 
between  you  and  him.     It's  indispensable. 

The  Mother.  I'm  ready  .  .  .  when  you  are  ready.  If 
you  could  only  find  a  chance  for  me  to  tell  him  what  I  feel 
here  in  my  heart. 

The  Father  {going  to  Son  in  a  great  rage).  You'll  do 
this  for  your  mother,  for  your  mother,  do  you  understand  ? 

The  Son  {quite  determined) .    I  do  nothing! 

The  Father  {taking  hold  of  him  and  shaking  him).  For 
God's  sake,  do  as  I  tell  you!  Don't  you  hear  your  mother 
asking  you  for  a  favour?  Haven't  you  even  got  the  guts  to 
be  a  son? 

The  Son  {taking  hold  of  the  Father).  No!  No!  And 
for  God's  sake  stop  it,  or  else  .  .  .  {General  agitation.  The 
Mother  J  frightened,  tries  to  separate  them). 

The  Mother  {pleading).     Please!  please! 

The  Father  {not  leaving  hold  of  the  Son).  You've  got 
to  obey,  do  you  hear  ? 

The  Son  {almost  crying  from  rage).  What  does  it  mean, 
this  madness  you've  got?  {They  separate).  Have  you  no 
decency,  that  you  insist  on  showing  everyone  our  shame?  I 
won't  do  it!  I  won't!  And  I  stand  for  the  will  of  our 
author  in  this.  He  didn't  want  to  put  us  on  the  stage,  after 
all! 

The  Manager.    Man  alive!    You  came  here  .  .  . 

The  Son  {indicating  Father).    He  did!     I  didn't! 

The  Manager.    Aren't  you  here  now? 


70  SIX   CHARACTERS  [Act  III] 

The  Son.  It  was  his  wish,  and  he  dragged  us  along  with 
him.  He's  told  you  not  only  the  things  that  did  happen,  but 
also  things  that  have  never  happened  at  all. 

The  Manager.  Well,  tell  me  then  what  did  happen. 
You  went  out  of  your  room  without  saying  a  word? 

The  Son.    Without  a  word,  so  as  to  avoid  a  scene! 

The  Manager.     And  then  what  did  you  do? 

The  Son.  Nothing  .  .  .  walking  in  the  garden  .  .  , 
(hesitates  for  a  moment  with  expression  of  gloom). 

The  Manager  {coming  closer  to  him,  interested  by  his 
extraordinary  reserve).  Well,  well  .  .  .  walking  in  the 
garden  .  .  . 

The  Son  {exasperated).  Why  on  earth  do  you  insist?  It's 
horrible!  {The  Mother  trembles j  sobs,  and  looks  towards 
the  fountain). 

The  Manager  {slowly  observing  the  glance  and  turning 
towards  the  Son  with  increasing  apprehension) .     The  baby? 

The  Son.    There  in  the  fountain  .  .  . 

The  Father  {pointing  with  tender  pity  to  the  Mother). 
She  was  following  him  at  the  moment  .  .  . 

The  Manager  {to  the  Son  anxiously).  And  then 
you  .  .  . 

The  Son.  I  ran  over  to  her ;  I  was  jumping  in  to  drag  her 
out  when  I  saw  something  that  froze  my  blood  .  .  .  the  boy 
there  standing  stock  still,  with  eyes  like  a  madman's,  watching 
his  little  drowned  sister,  in  the  fountain !  ( The  Step-Daughter 
bends  over  the  fountain  to  hide  the  Child.  She  sobs).  Then 
.  .  .  {A  revolver  shot  rings  out  behind  the  trees  where  the 
Boy  is  hidden). 

The  Mother.  {With  a  cry  of  terror  runs  over  in  that 
direction  together  with  several  of  the  actors  amid  general 
confusion) . 

My  son!  My  son!  {Then  amid  the  cries  and  exclama- 
tions one  hears  her  voice).    Help!     Help! 


'  [Act  III]  SIX    CHARACTERS  71 

The  Manager  {pushing  the  actors  aside  while  they  lift 
up  the  Boy  and  carry  him  off).     Is  he  really  wounded? 

Some  Actors.    He's  dead!  dead! 

Other  Actors.  No,  no,  it's  only  make  believe,  it's  only 
pretence ! 

The  Father  {with  a  terrible  cry).  Pretence?  Reality, 
sir,  reality! 

The  Manager.  Pretence?  Reality?  To  hell  with  it 
all!  Never  in  my  life  has  such  a  thing  happened  to  me. 
I Ve  lost  a  whole  day  over  these  people,  a  whole  day  1 

Curtain. 


"HENRY    IV." 

(Enrico  Quarto) 
A  TRAGEDY    IN    THREE   ACTS 

BY 

LUIGI    PIRANDELLO 

translated  by 
Edward  Storir 


CHARACTERS. 

**HENRY  IV."  THE  MARCHIONESS  MATILDA  SPINA.  HER 
DAUGHTER  FRIDA.  THE  YOUNG  MARQUIS  CHARLES  DI 
NOLLI.  BARON  TITO  BELCREDI.  DOCTOR  DIONYSIUS 
GENONI.      THE    FOUR   PRIVATE    COUNSELLORS  I    HAROLD 

(frank),  landolph  (lolo),  ordulph  (momo), 
BERTHOLD  (fino).  {The  names  in  brackets  are  nick- 
names). JOHN,  THE  OLD  WAITER.  THE  TWO  VALETS 
IN  COSTUME. 

A  Solitary  Villa  in  Italy  in  Our  Own  Time. 


"HENRY     I V.'' 
A   TRAGEDY   IN    THREE   ACTS 

ACT    I 

Salon  in  the  villa^  furnished  and  decorated  so  as  to  look 
exactly  like  the  throne  room  of  Henry  IV.  in  the  royal  resi- 
dence at  Goslar.  Among  the  antique  decorations  there  are 
two  modern  life-size  portraits  in  oil  painting.  They  are 
placed  against  the  back  wall,  and  mounted  in  a  wooden  stand 
that  runs  the  zvhole  length  of  the  wall.  (It  is  wide  and  pro- 
trudes, so  that  it  is  like  a  large  bench).  One  of  the  paintings 
is  on  the  right;  the  other  on  the  left  of  the  throne,  which  is 
in  the  middle  of  the  wall  and  divides  the  stand. 

The  Imperial  chair  and  Baldachin. 

The  two  portraits  represent  a  lady  and  a  gentleman,  both 
young,  dressed  up  in  carnival  costumes:  one  as  "Henry 
IV.,''  the  other  as  the  "Marchioness  Matilda  of  Tuscany.'' 
Exits  to  Right  and  Left.  . 

{When  the  curtain  goes  up,  the  two  valets  jump  down,  as  \ 
if  surprised,  from  the  stand  on  which  they  have  been  lying, 
and  go  and  take  their  positions,  as  rigid  as  statues,  on  either 
side  below  the  throne  with  their  halberds  in  their  hands. 
Soon  after,  from  the  second  exit,  right,  enter  Harold,  Lan- 
dolph,  Ordulph  and  Berthold,  young  men  employed  by  the 
Marquis  Charles  Di  Nolli  to  play  the  part  of  "Secret  Coun- 
sellors" at  the  court  of  "Henry  IV."  They  are,  therefore^ 
dressed  like  German  knights  of  the  Xlth  century.    Berthold, 

75 


76  ''HENRY   IVr  [Act  I] 

nicknamed  Fino,  is  just  entering  on  his  duties  for  the  first 
time.  His  companions  are  telling  him  what  he  has  to  do  and 
amusing  themselves  at  his  expense.  The  scene  is  to  be  played 
rapidly  and  vivaciously) . 

Landolph  {to  Berthold  as  if  explaining).  And  this  is 
the  throne  room. 

Harold.    At  Goslar. 

Ordulph.    Or  at  the  castle  in  the  Hartz,  if  3  ou  prefer. 

Harold.     Or  at  Wurms. 

Landolph.  According  as  to  what's  doing,  it  jumps  about 
with  us,  now  here,  now  there. 

Ordulph.     In  Saxony. 

Harold.    In  Lombardy. 

Landolph.    On  the  Rhine. 

One  of  the  Valets  {without  moving,  just  cpening  his 
lips).     I  say  ... 

Harold  {turning  round).    What  is  it? 

First  Valet  {like  a  statue).  Is  he  coming  in  or  not? 
{He  alludes  to  Henry  W .) 

Ordulph.     No,  no,  he's  asleep.    You  needn't  worry. 

Second  Valet  {releasing  his  pose,  taking  a  long  breath 
and  going  to  lie  down  again  on  the  stand).  You  might  have 
told  us  at  once. 

First  Valet  {going  over  to  Harold).  Have  you  got  a 
match,  please? 

Landolph.  What?  You  can't  smoke  a  pipe  here,  you 
know. 

First  Valet  {while  Harold  offers  him  a  light).  No;  a 
cigarette.  {Lights  his  cigarette  and  lies  down  again  on  the 
stand). 

Berthold  {who  has  been  looking  on  in  amazement,  walk- 
ing round  the  room,  regarding  the  costumes  of  the  others),  I 
say  .  .  .  this  room  .  .  .  these  costumes  .  .  .  Which  Henry 
IV.  is  it  ?    I  don't  quite  get  it.    Is  he  Henry  IV.  of  France 


[Act  I]  "HENRY   IVr  77 

or  not?  {At  this  Landolph,  Harold,  and  Ordulph,  burst  out 
laughing) . 

Landolph  {still  laughing;  and  pointing  to  Berthold  as  if 
inviting  the  others  to  make  fun  of  him).  Henry  of  France 
he  says:  ha!  ha! 

Ordulph.    He  thought  it  was  the  king  of  France ! 

Harold.  Henry  IV.  of  Germany,  my  boy:  the  Salian 
dynasty! 

Ordulph.     The  great  and  tragic  Emperor! 

Landolph.  He  of  Canossa.  Every  day  we  carry  on  here 
the  terrible  war  between  Church  and  State,  by  Jove. 

Ordulph.    The  Empire  against  the  Papacy! 

Harold.     Antipopes  against  the  Pope! 

Landolph.     Kings  against  antikings! 

Ordulph.    War  on  the  Saxons! 

Harold.     And  all  the  rebels  Princes! 

Landolph.    Against  the  Emporer's  own  sons! 

Berthold  {covering  his  head  with  his  hands  to  protect 
himself  against  this  avalanche  of  information).  I  under- 
stand I  I  understand!  Naturally,  I  didn't  get  the  idea  at 
first.  Vm  right  then:  these  aren't  costumes  of  the  XVIth 
century  ? 

Harold.    XVIth  century  be  hanged  I 

Ordulph.  We're  somewhere  between  a  thousand  and 
eleven  hundred. 

Landolph.  Work  it  out  for  yourself:  if  we  are  before 
Canossa  on  the  25th  of  January,  1071   .  .  . 

Berthold  {more  confused  than  ever).  Oh  my  God! 
What  a  mess  I've  made  of  it! 

Ordulph.  Well,  just  slightly,  if  you  supposed  you  were 
at  the  French  court. 

Berthold.    All  that  historical  stuff  I've  swatted  up! 

Landolph.    My  dear  boy,  it's  four  hundred  years  earlier. 

Berthold  {getting  angry).    Good  Heavens!    You  ought 


78  ''HENRY  IVr  [Act  I] 

to  have  told  me  it  was  Germany  and  not  France.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  many  books  I've  read  in  the  last  fifteen  days. 

Harold.  But  I  say,  surely  you  knew  that  poor  Tito  was 
Adalbert  of  Bremen,  here? 

Berthold.     Not  a  damned  bit! 

Landolph.  Well,  don't  you  see  how  it  is?  When  Tito 
died,  the  Marquis  Di  Nolli  .  .  . 

Berthold.  Oh,  it  was  he,  was  it?  He  might  have  told 
me. 

Harold.    Perhaps  he  thought  you  knew. 

Landolph.  He  didn't  want  to  engage  anyone  else  in 
substitution.  He  thought  the  remaining  three  of  us  would 
do.  But  he  began  to  cry  out:  "With  Adalbert  driven  away 
.  .  .  ":  because,  you  see,  he  didn't  imagine  poor  Tito  was 
dead;  but  that,  as  Bishop  Adalbert,  the  rival  bishops  of 
Cologne  and  Mayence  had  driven  him  of¥  .  .  . 

Berthold  {taking  his  head  in  his  hand).  But  I  don't 
know  a  word  of  what  you're  talking  about. 

Ordulph.     So  much  the  worse  for  you,  my  boy! 

Harold.  But  the  trouble  is  that  not  even  we  know  who 
YOU  are. 

Berthold.  What?  Not  even  you?  You  don't  know 
who  I'm  supposed  to  be? 

Ordulph.     Hum!     "Berthold." 

Berthold.    But  which  Berthold?    And  why  Berthold  •* 

Landolph  {solemnly  imitating  Henry  IV.).  "They've 
driven  Adalbert  away  from  me.  Well  then,  I  want  Bert- 
hold!   I  want  Berthold!"    That's  what  he  said. 

Harold.  We  three  looked  one  another  in  the  eyes :  who's 
got  to  be  Berthold? 

Ordulph.  And  so  here  you  are,  "Berthold,"  my  dear 
fellow ! 

Landolph.  I'm  afraid  you  will  make  a  bit  of  a  mess 
of  it. 


[Act  I]  "HENRY  IVr  79 

Berthold  {indignant j  getting  ready  to  go).  Ah,  no! 
Thanks  very  much,  but  I'm  off!     I'm  out  of  this! 

Harold  {restraining  him  with  the  other  two,  amid  laugh- 
ter).    Steady  now!     Don't  get  excited! 

Landolph.  Cheer  up,  my  dear  fellow!  We  don't  any 
of  us  know  who  we  are  really.  He's  Harold;  he's  Ordulph; 
I'm  Landolph !  That's  the  way  he  calls  us.  We've  got  used  I 
to  it.  But  who  are  we  ?  Names  of  the  period !  Yours,  too,  \ 
is  a  name  of  the  period:  Berthold!  Only  one  of  us,  poor 
Tito,  had  got  a  really  decent  part,  as  you  can  read  in  history: 
that  of  the  Bishop  of  Bremen.  He  was  just  like  a  real 
bishop.     Tito  did  it  awfully  well,  poor  chap! 

Harold.    Look  at  the  study  he  put  into  it! 

Landolph.  Why,  he  even  ordered  his  Majesty  about, 
opposed  his  views,  guided  and  counselled  him.  We're  "secret 
counsellors" — in  a  manner  of  speaking  only;  because  it  is 
written  in  history  that  Henry  IV.  was  hated  by  the  upper 
aristocracy  for  surrounding  himself  at  court  with  young  men 
of  the  bourgeoise. 

Ordulph.     Us,  that  is. 

Landolph.  Yes,  small  devoted  vassals,  a  bit  dissolute 
and  very  gay  .  .  . 

Berthold.    So  I've  got  to  be  gay  as  well? 

Harold.     I  should  say  so !     Same  as  we  are ! 

Ordulph.    And  it  isn't  too  easy,  you  know. 

Landolph.  It's  a  pity;  because  the  way  we're  got  up, 
we  could  do  a  fine  historical  reconstruction.  There's  any 
amount  of  material  in  the  story  of  Henry  IV.  But,  as  a  l1 
matter  of  fact,  we  do  nothing.  We've  have  the  form  without 
the  content.  We're  worse  than  the  real  secret  counsellors 
oi  Henry  IV.;  because  certainly  no  one  had  given  them  a 
part  to  play — at  any  rate,  they  didn't  feel  they  had  a  part 
to  play.  It  was  their  hfe.  They  looked  after  their  own 
interests  at  the  expense  of  others,  sold   investitures  and — 


80  ''HENRY  IV,"  [Act  I] 

what  not!  We  stop  here  in  this  magnificent  court — for 
what? — Just  doing  nothing.  We're  like  so  many  puppets 
hung  on  the  wall,  waiting  for  some  one  to  come  and  move  us 
or  make  us  talk. 

Harold.  Ah  no,  old  sport,  not  quite  that!  We've  got 
>^  to  give  the  proper  answer,  you  know.  There's  trouble  if  he 
(      asks  you  something  and  you  don't  chip  in  with  the  cue. 

Landolph.    Yes,  that's  true. 

Berthold.  Don't  rub  it  in  too  hard!  How  the  devil 
am  I  to  give  him  the  proper  answer,  if  I've  swatted  up 
Henry  IV.  of  France,  and  now  he  turns  out  to  be  Henry 
IV.  of  Germany?     {The  other  three  laugh). 

Harold.    You'd  better  start  and  prepare  yourself  at  once. 

Ordulph.    We'll  help  you  out. 

Harold.  We've  got  any  amount  of  books  on  the  sub- 
ject. A  brief  run  through  the  main  points  will  do  to  begin 
with. 

Ordulph.  At  any  rate,  you  must  have  got  some  sort  of 
general  idea. 

Harold.     Look  here!      {Turns  him   around  and  shows 

him  the  portrait  of  the  Marchioness  Matilda  on  the  wall). 

Who's  that? 

\\      Berthold  {looking  at  it).    That?    Well,  the  thing  seems 

to  me  somewhat  out  of  place,  anyway :  two  modern  paintings 

^  in  the  midst  of  all  this  respectable  antiquity ! 

Harold.  You're  right!  They  weren't  there  in  the  be- 
ginning. There  are  two  niches  there  behind  the  pictures. 
They  were  going  to  put  up  two  statues  in  the  style  of  the 
period.  Then  the  places  were  covered  w^ith  those  canvasses 
there. 

Landolph  {interrupting  and  continuing) .  They  would 
certainly  be  out  of  place  if  they  really  were  paintings! 

Berthold.     What  are  they,  if  they  aren't  paintings? 

Landolph.    Go  and  touch  them!    Pictures  all  right  .  .  . 


[Act  I]  ''HENRY   IV r  81 

but  for  him!  {Makes  a  mysterious  gesture  to  the  right,  al- 
luding to  Henry  IV.)    .  .  .  who  never  touches  them!  .  .  . 

Berthold.    No?    What  are  they  for  him ? 

Landolph.  Well,  I'm  only  supposing,  you  know;  but 
I  imagine  I'm  about  right.  They're  images  such  as  .  .  . 
well — such  as  a  mirror  might  throw  back.  Do  you  under- 
stand? That  one  there  represents  himself,  as  he  is  in  this 
throne  room,  which  is  all  in  the  style  of  the  period.  What's 
there  to  marvel  at?  If  we  put  you  before  a  mirror,  won't 
you  see  yourself,  alive,  but  dressed  up  in  ancient  costume? 
Well,  it's  as  if  there  were  two  mirrors  there,  which  cast 
back  living  images  in  the  midst  of  a  world  which,  as  you 
will  see,  when  you  have  lived  with  us,  comes  to  life  too. 

Berthold.  I  say,  look  here  .  .  .  I've  no  particular  de- 
sire to  go  mad  here. 

Harold.    Go  mad,  be  hanged !    You'll  have  a  fine  time ! 

Berthold.  Tell  me  this:  how  have  you  all  managed  to 
become  so  learned? 

Landolph.  My  dear  fellow,  you  can't  go  back  over  800 
years  of  history  without  picking  up  a  bit  of  experience. 

Harold.  Come  on !  Come  on !  You'll  see  how  quickly 
you  get  into  it! 

Ordulph.     You'll  learn  wisdom,  too,  at  this  school. 

Berthold.  Well,  for  Heaven's  sake,  help  me  a  bit! 
Give  me  the  main  lines,  anj^^aj^ 

Harold.     Leave  it  to  us.    We'll  do  it  all  between  us. 

Landolph.  We'll  put  your  wires  on  you  and  fix  you 
up  like  a  first  class  marionette.  Come  along!  {They  take 
him  by  the  arm  to  lead  him  away). 

Berthold  {stopping  and  looking  at  the  portrait  on  the 
zvall).  Wait  a  minute!  You  haven't  told  me  who  that  is. 
The  Emperor's  wife? 

Harold.  No!  The  Emperor's  wife  is  Bertha  of  Susa, 
the  sister  of  Amadeus  11.  of  Savoy. 


82  ''HENRY   IVr  [Act  I] 

Ordulph.  And  the  Emperor,  who  wants  to  be  young 
with  us,  can't  stand  her,  and  wants  to  put  her  away. 

Landolph.  That  is  his  most  ferocious  enemy:  Matilda, 
Marchioness  of  Tuscany. 

Berthold.  Ah,  I've  got  it:  the  one  who  gave  hospitality 
to  the  Pope! 

Landolph.    Exactly:  at  Canossa! 

Ordulph.     Pope  Gregory  VII. ! 

Harold.  Our  bete  noir!  Come  on!  come  on!  {All  four 
move  toward  the  right  to  go  out,  when,  from  the  left,  *he  old 
servant  John  enters  in  evening  dress). 

John  {quickly,  anxiously).    Hss!     Hss!     Frank!     Lolo! 

Harold  {turning  round).    What  is  it? 

Berthold  {marvelling  at  seeing  a  man  in  modern  clothes 
enter  the  throne  room).  Oh!  I  say,  this  is  a  bit  too  much, 
this  chap  here ! 

Landolph.  A  man  of  the  XXth  century,  here!  Oh,  go 
away !  ( They  run  over  to  him,  pretending  to  menace  him 
and  throw  him  out). 

Ordulph  {heroically).  Messenger  of  Gregory  VII., 
away ! 

Harold.    Away !    Away ! 

John  {annoyed,  defending  himself).  Oh,  stop  it!  Stop 
it,  I  tell  you ! 

Ordulph.    No,  you  can't  set  foot  here ! 

Harold.     Out  with  him! 

Landolph  {to  Berthold).  Magic,  you  know!  He's  a 
demon  conjured  up  by  the  Wizard  of  Rome!  Out  with 
your  swords!     {Makes  as  if  to  draw  a  sword). 

John  {shouting).  Stop  it,  will  you?  Don't  play  the 
fool  with  me!  The  Marquis  has  arrived  with  some 
friends  .  .  . 

Landolph.     Good!    Good!    Are  there  ladies  too? 

Ordulph.    Old  or  young? 


[Act  I]  "HENRY   lyr  83 

John.     There  are  two  gentlemen. 

Harold.    But  the  ladies,  the  ladies,  who  are  they? 

John.    The  Marchioness  and  her  daughter. 

Landolph   (surprised) .     What  do  you  say? 

Ordulph.    The  Marchioness? 

John.     The  Marchioness!    The  Marchioness! 

Harold.    Who  are  the  gentlemen? 

John.    I  don't  know. 

Harold  {to  Berthold).  They're  coming  to  bring  us  a 
message  from  the  Pope,  do  you  see? 

Ordulph.  All  messengers  of  Gregory  VH.!  What 
fun! 

John.    Will  you  let  me  speak,  or  not? 

Harold.    Go  on,  then! 

John.    One  of  the  two  gentlemen  is  a  doctor,  I  fancy. 

Landolph.     Oh,  I  see,  one  of  the  usual  doctors. 

Harold.     Bravo  Berthold,  you'll  bring  us  luck! 

Landolph.  You  wait  and  see  how  we'll  manage  this 
doctor ! 

Berthold.  It  looks  as  if  I  were  going  to  get  into  a 
nice  mess  right  away. 

John.  If  the  gentlemen  would  allow  me  to  speak  .  .  f 
they  want  to  come  here  into  the  throne  room. 

Landolph  (surprised).  What?  She?  The  Marchioness 
here? 

Harold.  Then  this  is  something  quite  different!  No 
play-acting  this  time! 

Landolph.    We'll  have  a  real  tragedy :  that's  what ! 

Berthold  (curious).    Why?    Why? 

Ordulph  (pointing  to  the  portrait).  She  is  that  person 
there,  don't  you  understand? 

Landolph.  The  daughter  is  the  fiancee  of  the  Marquis. 
But  what  have  they  come  for,  I  should  like  to  know? 

Ordulph.    If  he  sees  her,  there'll  be  trouble. 


84  ''HENRY   IF/'  [Act  I] 

Landolph.     Perhaps  he  won't  recognize  her  any  more. 

John.  You  must  keep  him  there,  if  he  should  wake 
up  .  .  . 

Ordulph.    Easier  said  than  done,  by  Jove ! 

Harold.    You  know  what  he's  like ! 

John.  —  even  by  force,  if  necessary !  Those  are  my 
orders.    Go  on !    Go  on ! 

Harold.  Yes,  because  who  knows  if  he  hasn't  already 
wakened  up? 

Ordulph.     Come  on  then! 

Landolph  {going  towards  John  with  the  others).  You'll 
tell  us  later  what  it  all  means. 

John  {shouting  after  them).  Close  the  door  there,  and 
hide  the  key!  That  other  door  too.  {Pointing  to  the  other 
door  on  right). 

John  {to  the  two  valets).  Be  off,  you  two!  There  {point- 
ing to  exit  right)  1  Close  the  door  after  you,  and  hide  the 
key! 

{The  two  valets  go  out  by  the  first  door  on  right.  John 
moves  over  to  the  left  to  show  in:  Donna  Matilda  Spina,  the 
young  Marchioness  Frida,  Dr.  Dionysius  Genoni,  the  Baron 
Tito  Belcredi  and  the  young  Marquis  Charles  Di  Nolli,  who, 
as  master  of  the  house,  enters  last. 

Donna  Matilda  Spina  is  about  45,  still  handsome,  al- 
though there  are  too  patent  signs  of  her  attempts  to  remedy 
the  ravages  of  time  with  make-up.  Her  head  is  thus  rather 
like  a  Walkyrie.  This  facial  make-up  contrasts  with  her 
beautiful  sad  mouth.  A  widow  for  many  years,  she  now  has 
as  her  friend  the  Baron  Tito  Belcredi,  whom  neither  she  nor 
anyone  else  takes  seriously — at  least  so  it  zvould  appear. 

What  Tito  Belcredi  really  is  for  her  at  bottom,  he  alone 
knows;  and  he  is,  therefore,  entitled  to  laugh,  if  his  friend 
feels  the  need  of  pretending  not  to  know.  He  can  always 
laugh  at  the  jests  which  the  beautiful  Marchioness  makes 


[Act  I]  "HENRY   IF/'  85 

with  the  others  at  his  expense.  He  is  slim,  prematurely  gray, 
and  younger  than  she  is.  His  head  is  bird-like  in  shape.  He 
would  be  a  very  vivacious  person^  if  his  ductile  agility  {which 
among  other  things  makes  him  a  redoubtable  swordsman^ 
were  not  enclosed  in  a  sheath  of  Arab-like  laziness,  which  is 
revealed  in  his  strange,  nasal  drawn-out  voice. 

Frida,  the  daughter  of  the  Marchioness  is  19.  She  is  sad; 
because  her  imperious  and  too  beautiful  mother  puts  her  in 
the  shade,  and  provokes  facile  gossip  against  her  daughter  as 
well  as  against  herself.  Fortunately  for  her,  she  is  engaged 
to  the  Marquis  Charles  Di  Nolli. 

Charles  Di  Nolli  is  a  stiff  young  man,  very  indulgent 
towards  others,  but  sure  of  himself  for  what  he  amounts  to  in 
the  world.  He  is  worried  about  all  the  responsibilities  which 
he  believes  weigh  on  him.  He  is  dressed  in  deep  mourning 
for  the  recent  death  of  his  mother. 

Dr.  Dionysius  Genoni  has  a  bold  rubicund  Satyr-like 
face,  prominent  eyes,  a  pointed  beard  {which  is  silvery  and 
shiny)  and  elegant  manners.  He  is  nearly  bald.  All  enter 
in  a  state  of  perturbation,  almost  as  if  afraid,  and  all  {except 
Di  Nolli)  looking  curiously  about  the  room.  At  first,  they 
speak  sotto  voce. 

Di  Nolli  {to  John) .  Have  you  given  the  orders  properly? 

John.    Yes,  my  Lord ;  don't  be  anxious  about  that. 

Belcredi.     Ah,  magnificent!  magnificent! 

Doctor.  How  extremely  interesting!  Even  in  the  sur- 
roundings his  raving  madness — is  perfectly  taken  into  ac- 
jcount ! 

Donna  Matilda  {glancing  round  for  her  portrait,  dis- 
covers it,  and  goes  up  close  to  it).  Ah!  Here  it  is!  {Going 
back  to  admire  it,  while  mixed  emotions  stir  within  her). 
Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .    {Calls  her  daughter  Frida), 

Frida.    Ah,  your  portrait! 


S6  "HENRY  IVr  [Act  I] 

Donna  Matilda.  No,  no  .  .  .  look  again ;  It's  you,  not 
I,  there ! 

Di  NoLLi.    Yes,  it's  quite  true.     I  told  you  so,  I  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  But  I  would  never  have  believed  it! 
(Shaking  as  if  with  a  chill).  What  a  strange  feeling  it  gives 
one!  {Then  looking  at  her  daughter).  Frida,  what's  the 
matter?  {She  pulls  her  to  her  side,  and  slips  an  arm  round 
her  waist).    Come:  don't  you  see  yourself  in  me  there? 

Frida.    Well,  I  really  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  Don't  you  think  so?  Don't  you, 
really?     {Turning  to  Belcredi).  Look  at  it,  Tito!     Speak 


up,  man 


Belcredi  {without  looking).  Ah,  no!  I  shan't  look  at 
it.     For  me,  a  priori,  certainly  not! 

Donna  Matilda.  Stupid!  You  think  you  are  paying 
me  a  compliment!  {Turing  to  Doctor  Genoni).  What  do 
you  say,  Doctor  ?    Do  say  something,  please ! 

Doctor  {makes  a  movement  to  go  near  to  the  picture) » 

Belcredi  {with  his  back  turned,  pretending  to  attract  his 
attention  secretely).  — Hss!  No,  doctor!  For  the  love  of 
Heaven,  have  nothing  to  do  with  it! 

Doctor  {getting  bewildered  and  smiling).  And  why 
shouldn't  I  ? 

Donna  Matilda.  Don't  listen  to  him!  Come  here! 
He's  Insufferable! 

Frida.  He  acts  the  fool  by  profession,  didn't  you  know 
that? 

Belcredi  {to  the  Doctor,  seeing  him  go  over).  Look  at 
your  feet,  doctor!     Mind  where  you're  going! 

Doctor.    Why  ? 

Belcredi.    Be  careful  you  don't  put  your  foot  in  it! 

Doctor  {laughing  feebly).  No,  no.  After  all,  it  seems 
to  me  there's  no  reason  to  be  astonished  at  the  fact  that  a 
daughter  should  resemble  her  mother ! 


[Act  I]  ''HENRY   IVr  87 

Belcredi.  Hullo!   Hullo!   He's  done  it  now;  he's  said  it. 

Donna  Matilda  {with  exaggerated  anger,  advancing 
towards  Belcredi) .  What's  the  matter  ?  What  has  he  said  ? 
What  has  he  done  ? 

Doctor  (candidly).    Well,  isn't  it  so? 

Belcredi  (answering  the  Marchioness) .  I  said  there  was 
nothing  to  be  astounded  at — and  you  are  astounded!  And 
why  so,  then,  if  the  thing  is  so  simple  and  natural  for  you 
now? 

Donna  Matilda  (still  more  angry).  Fool!  fool!  It's 
just  because  it  is  so  natural !  Just  because  it  isn't  my  daugh- 
ter who  is  there.  (Pointing  to  the  canvass).  That  is  my 
portrait;  and  to  find  my  daughter  there  instead  of  me  fills 
me  with  astonishment,  an  astonishment  which,  I  beg  you  to 
believe,  is  sincere.    I  forbid  you  to  cast  doubts  on  it. 

Frlda  (slowly  and  wearily).  My  God!  It's  always  like 
this  .  .  .  rows  over  nothing.  .  . 

Belcredi  (also  slowly,  looking  dejected,  in  accents  of 
apology).  I  cast  no  doubt  on  anything!  I  noticed  from  the 
beginning  that  you  haven't  shared  your  mother's  astonish- 
ment; or,  if  something  did  astonish  you,  it  was  because  the 
likeness  between  you  and  the  portrait  seemed  so  strong. 

Donna  Matilda.  Naturally!  She  cannot  recognize 
herself  in  me  as  I  was  at  her  age;  while  I,  there,  can  very 
well  recognize  myself  in  her  as  she  is  now! 

Doctor.  Quite  right!  Because  a  portrait  is  always  there 
fixed  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye:  for  the  young  lady  some- 
thing far  away  and  without  memories,  while,  for  the  Mar- 
chioness, it  can  bring  back  everything:  movements,  gestures, 
looks,  smiles,  a  whole  heap  of  things  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.    Exactly! 

Doctor  (continuing,  turning  towards  her).  Naturally  \ 
enough,  you  can  live  all  these  old  sensations  again  in  your  j 
daughter. 


88  ''HENRY   IVr  [Act  I] 

Donna  Matilda.  He  always  spoils  every  innocent 
pleasure  for  me,  every  touch  I  have  of  spontaneous  senti- 
ment!    He  does  it  merely  to  annoy  me. 

Doctor  {frightened  at  the  disturbance  he  has  caused, 
adopts  a  professorial  tone).  Likeness,  dear  Baron,  is  often 
the  result  of  imponderable  things.    So  one  explains  that  .  .  . 

Belcredi  {interrupting  the  discourse).  Somebody  will 
soon  be  finding  a  likeness  between  you  and  me,  my  dear 
professor ! 

Di  NoLLi.  Oh!  let's  finish  with  this,  please!  {Points  to 
the  two  doors  on  the  Right,  as  a  warning  that  there  is  some- 
one there  who  may  be  listening).  We've  wasted  too  much 
time  as  it  is ! 

Frida.  As  one  might  expect  when  he's  present  {alludes 
to  Belcredi). 

Di  NoLLi.  Enough!  The  doctor  is  here;  and  we  have 
come  for  a  very  serious  purpose  which  you  all  know  is  im- 
portant for  me. 

Doctor.  Yes,  that  is  so!  But  now,  first  of  all,  let's  try 
to  get  some  points  down  exactly.  Excuse  me,  Marchioness, 
will  you  tell  me  why  your  portrait  is  here  ?  Did  you  present 
it  to  him  then? 

Donna  Matilda.  No,  not  at  all.  How  could  I  have 
given  it  to  him?  I  was  just  like  Frida  then — and  not  even 
engaged.  I  gave  it  to  him  three  or  four  years  after  the 
accident.  I  gave  it  to  him  because  his  mother  wished  it  so 
much  {points  to  Di  Nolli)    .  .  . 

Doci^OR.     She  was  his  sister  {alludes  to  Henry  IF.)  ? 

Di  Nolli.  Yes,  doctor;  and  our  coming  here  is  a  debt 
we  pay  to  my  mother  who  has  been  dead  for  more  than  a 
month.  Instead  of  being  here,  she  and  I  {indicating  Frida) 
ought  to  be  traveling  together  .  .  . 

Doctor.    .  .  .  taking  a  cure  of  quite  a  different  kind ! 


[Act  I]  "HENRY  IVr  89 

Di  NoLLi.  — Hum !  Mother  died  in  the  firm  conviction 
that  her  adored  brother  was  just  about  to  be  cured. 

Doctor.  And  can't  you  tell  me,  if  you  please,  how  she 
inferred  this? 

Di  NoLLi.  The  conviction  would  appear  to  have  derived 
from  certain  strange  remarks  which  he  made,  a  little  before 
mother  died. 

Doctor.  Oh,  remarks!  .  .  .  Ah!  ...  It  would  be  ex- 
tremely useful  for  me  to  have  those  remarks,  w^ord  for  word, 
if  possible. 

Di  Nolli.  I  can't  remember  them.  I  know  that  mother 
returned  awfully  upset  from  her  last  visit  with  him.  On 
her  death-bed,  she  made  me  promise  that  I  would  never 
neglect  him,  that  I  w^ould  have  doctors  see  him,  and  examine 
him. 

Doctor.  Um!  Um!  Let  me  see!  let  me  see!  Some- 
times very  small  reasons  determine  .  .  .  and  this  portrait 
here  then?  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  For  Heaven's  sake,  doctor,  don't  at- 
tach excessive  importance  to  this.  It  made  an  impression  on 
me  because  I  had  not  seen  it  for  so  many  years ! 

Doctor.    If  you  please,  quietly,  quietly  .  .  . 

Di  Nolli.  — Well,  yes,  it  must  be  about  fifteen  years 
ago. 

Donna  Matilda.     More,  more:  eighteen! 

Doctor.  Forgive  me,  but  you  don't  quite  know  what 
I'm  trying  to  get  at.  I  attach  a  very  great  importance  to 
these  tw^o  portraits  .  .  .  They  were  painted,  naturally, 
prior  to  the  famous — and  most  regretable  pageant,  weren't 
they? 

Donna  Matilda.    Of  course! 

Doctor.  That  is  .  .  .  when  he  was  quite  in  his  right 
mind — that's  what  I've  been  trying  to  say.  Was  it  his 
suggestion  that  they  should  be  painted? 


90  ''HENRY  IVr  [Act  I] 

Donna  Matilda.  Lxjts  of  the  people  who  took  part  in 
the  pageant  had  theirs  done  as  a  souvenir  .  .  . 

Belcredi.    I  had  mine  done — as  "Charles  of  Anjou!" 

Donna  Matilda.  ...  as  soon  as  the  costumes  were 
ready. 

Belcredi.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  proposed  that  the 
whole  lot  of  us  should  be  hung  together  in  a  gallery  of  the 
villa  where  the  pageant  took  place.  But  in  the  end,  every- 
body wanted  to  keep  his  own  portrait. 

Donna  Matilda.  And  I  gave  him  this  portrait  of  me 
without  very  much  regret  .  .  .  since  his  mother  .  .  .  {in- 
dicates Di  Nolli) . 

Doctor.  You  don't  remember  if  it  was  he  who  asked 
for  it  ? 

Donna  Matilda.  Ah,  that  I  don't  remember  .  .  . 
Maybe  it  was  his  sister,  wanting  to  help  out  .  .  . 

Doctor.     One  other  thing:  was  it  his  idea,  this  pageant? 

Belcredi  {at  once).    No,  no,  it  was  mine! 

Doctor.     If  you  please  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.     Don't  listen  to  him!     It  was  poor* 
Belassi's  idea. 

Belcredi.    Belassi!    What  had  he  got  to  do  with  it? 

Donna  Matilda.  Count  Belassi,  who  died,  poor  fellow, 
two  or  three  months  after  .  .  . 

Belcredi.     But  if  Belassi  wasn't  there  when  .  .  . 

Di  Nolli.  Excuse  me,  doctor;  but  is  it  really  necessary 
to  establish  whose  the  original  idea  was? 

Doctor.    It  would  help  me,  certainly! 

Belcredi.  I  tell  you  the  idea  was  mine!  There's  noth- 
ing to  be  proud  of  in  it,  seeing  what  the  result's  been.  Look 
here,  doctor,  it  was  like  this.  One  evening,  in  the  first  days 
of  November,  I  was  looking  at  an  illustrated  German  review 
in  the  club.  I  was  merely  glancing  at  the  pictures,  because 
I  can't  read  German.     There  was  a  picture  of  the  Kaiser, 


[Act  I]  ''HENRY   IVr  91 

at  some  University  town  where  he  had  been  a  student  .  .  . 
I  don't  remember  which. 

Doctor.     Bonn,  Bonn! 

Belcredi.  — You  are  right:  Bonn!  He  was  on  horse- 
back, dressed  up  in  one  of  those  ancient  German  student 
guild-costumes,  followed  by  a  procession  of  noble  students, 
also  in  costume.  The  picture  gave  me  the  idea.  Already 
some  one  at  the  club  had  spoken  of  a  pageant  for  the  forth- 
coming carnival.  So  I  had  the  notion  that  each  of  us  should 
choose  for  this  Tower  of  Babel  pageant  to  represent  some 
character :  a  king,  an  emperor,  a  prince,  with  his  queen,  em- 
press, or  lady,  alongside  of  him — and  all  on  horseback.  The 
suggestion  was  at  once  accepted. 

Donna  Matilda.    I  had  my  invitation  from  Belassi. 

Belcredi.  Well,  he  w^asn't  speaking  the  truth!  That's 
all  I  can  say,  if  he  told  you  the  idea  was  his.  He  wasn't  even 
at  the  club  the  evening  I  made  the  suggestion,  just  as  he 
(meaning  Henry  IV.)  wasn't  there  either. 

Doctor.     So  he  chose  the  character  of  Henry  IV.? 

Donna  Matilda.  Because  I  .  .  .  thinking  of  my  name, 
and  not  giving  the  choice  any  importance,  said  I  would  be 
the  Marchioness  Matilda  of  Tuscany. 

Doctor.  I  .  .  .  don't  understand  the  relation  between 
the  two. 

Donna  Matilda.  — Neither  did  I,  to  begin  with,  when 
he  said  that  in  that  case  he  would  be  at  my  feet  like  Henry 
IV.  at  Canossa.  I  had  heard  of  Canossa  of  course;  but  to 
tell  the  truth,  I'd  forgotten  most  of  the  story;  and  I  re- 
member I  received  a  curious  impression  when  I  had  to  get 
up  my  part,  and  found  that  I  was  the  faithful  and  zealous 
friend  of  Pope  Gregory  VII.  in  deadly  enmity  with  the  Em- 
peror of  Germany.  Then  I  understood  why,  since  I  had 
chosen  to  represent  his  implacable  enemy,  he  wanted  to  be 
near  me  in  the  pageant  as  Henry  IV. 


92  ''HENRY   IF"  [Act  I] 

Doctor.    Ah,  perhaps  because  .  .  . 

Belcredi.  — Good  Heavens,  doctor,  because  he  was  then 
paying  furious  court  to  her  {indicates  the  Marchioness)! 
And  she,  naturally  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.    Naturally?    Not  naturally  at  all  .  .  . 

Belcredi  (pointing  to  her).    She  couldn't  stand  him  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  — No,  that  isn't  true!  I  didn't  dis- 
like him.  Not  at  all !  But  for  me,  when  ajnan  begins  to 
want  to  be  taken  seriously,  well  .  .  . 

BELCREDr (continuing  for  her).  He  gives  you  the  clear- 
est^roof  of  his  stupid] ty._. 

Donna  Matilda.  No  dear ;  not  in  this  case ;  because  he 
was  never  a  fool  like  you. 

Belcredi.  Anyway,  I've  never  asked  you  to  take  me 
seriously. 

Donna  Matilda.  Yes,  I  know.  But  with  him  one 
couldn't  joke  (changing  her  tone  and  speaking  to  the  Doc- 
tor). One  of  the  many  misfortunes  which  happen  to  us 
women.  Doctor,  is  to  see  before  us  every  now  and  again  a 
pair  of  eyes  glaring  at  us  with  a  contained  intense  promise 
of  eternal  devotion.  (Bursts  out  laughing).  There  is  noth- 
ing quite  so  funny.  If  men  could  only  see  themselves  with 
that  eternal  fidelity  look  in  their  faces!  I've  always  thought 
it  comic;  then  more  even  than  now.  But  I  want  to  make  a 
confession — I  can  do  so  after  twenty  years  or  more.  When 
I  laughed  at  him  then,  it  was  partly  out  of  fear.  One  might 
have  almost  believed  a  promise  from  those  eyes  of  his.  But 
it  would  have  been  very  dangerous. 

Doctor  (with  lively  interest).  Ah!  ah!  This  is  most 
interesting!     Very  dangerous,  you  say? 

Donna  Matilda.  Yes,  because  he  was  very  different 
from  the  others.  And  then,  I  am  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  what  shall 
I  say?  ...  a  little  impatient  of  all  that  is  pondered,  or 
tedious.     But  I  was  too  young  then,  and  a  woman.     I  had 


[Act  I]  ''HENRY  ^Vt  93 

the  bit  between  my  teeth.  It  would  have  required  more 
courage  than  I  felt  I  possessed.  So  I  laughed  at  him  too — 
with  remorse,  to  spite  myself,  indeed;  since  I  saw  that  my 
own  laugh  mingled  with  those  of  all  the  others — the  other 
fools — who  made  fun  of  him. 

Belcredi.     My  own  case,  more  or  less! 

Donna  Matilda.  You  make  people  laugh  at  you,  my 
dear,  with  your  trick  of  always  humiliating  yourself.  It  was 
quite  a  different  affair  with  him.  There's  a  vast  difference. 
And  you — you  know — people  laugh  in  your  face! 

Belcredi.    AVell,  that's  better  than  behind  one's  back! 

Doctor.  Let's  get  to  the  facts.  He  was  then  already 
somewhat  exalted,  if  I  understand  rightly. 

Belcredi.    Yes,  but  in  a  curious  fashion,  doctor. 

Doctor.    How? 

Belcredi.     Well,  cold-bloodedly  so  to  speak. 

Donna  Matilda.  Not  at  all!  It  was  like  this,  doctor! 
He  was  a  bit  strange,  certainly ;  but  only  because  he  was  fond 
of  life :  eccentric,  there ! 

Belcredi.  I  don't  say  he  simulated  exaltation.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  often  genuinely  exalted.  But  I  could 
swear,  doctor,  that  he  saw  himself  at  once  in  his  own  exalta- 
tion. Moreover,  I'm  certain  it  made  him  suffer.  Sometimes 
he  had  the  most  comical  fits  of  rage  against  himself. 

Doctor.    Yes  ? 

Donna  Matilda.    That  is  true. 

Belcredi  {to  Donna  Matilda).  And  why?  (To  the 
doctor).  Evidently,  because  that  immediate  lucidity  that 
comes  from  acting,  assuming  a  part,  at  once  put  him  out  of 
key  with  his  own  feelings,  which  seemed  to  him  not  exactly 
false,  but  like  something  he  was  obliged  to  valorize  there  and 
then  as — what  shall  I  say — as  an  act  of  intelligence,  to 
make  up  for  that  sincere  cordial  warmth  he  felt  lacking.  So 
he  improvised,  exaggerated,  let  himself  go,  so  as  to  distract 


94  ''HENRY  IVr  [Act  I] 

and  forget  himself.  He  appeared  inconstant,  fatuous,  and — 
yes — even  ridiculous,  sometimes. 

Doctor.    And  may  we  say  unsociable  ? 

Belcredi.  No,  not  at  all.  He  was  famous  for  getting  up 
things:  tableaux  vivants,  dances,  theatrical  performances  for 
charity:  all  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  of  course.  He  was  a 
jolly  good  actor,  you  know! 

Di  NoLLi.     Madness  has  made  a  superb  actor  of  him. 

Belcredi.  — Why,  so  he  was  even  in  the  old  days.  When 
the  accident  happened,  after  the  horse  fell  .  .  . 

Doctor.    Hit  the  back  of  his  head,  didn't  he? 

Donna  Matilda.  Oh,  it  was  horrible !  He  was  beside 
me!     I  saw  him  between  the  horse's  hoofs!     It  was  rearing! 

Belcredi.  None  of  us  thought  it  was  anything  serious 
at  first.  There  was  a  stop  in  the  pageant,  a  bit  of  disorder. 
People  wanted  to  know  what  had  happened.  But  they'd 
already  taken  him  off  to  the  villa. 

Donna  Matilda.  There  wasn't  the  least  sign  of  a 
wound,  not  a  drop  of  blood. 

Belcredi.    We  thought  he  had  merely  fainted. 

Donna  Matilda.    But  two  hours  afterwards  .  .  . 

Belcredi.  He  reappeared  in  the  drawing-room  of  the 
villa  .  .  .  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  say  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  My  God!  What  a  face  he  had.  I 
saw  the  whole  thing  at  once! 

Belcredi.  No,  no!  that  isn't  true.  Nobody  saw  it, 
doctor,  believe  me! 

Donna  Matilda.  Doubtless,  because  you  were  all  like 
mad  folk. 

Belcredi.  Everybody  was  pretending  to  act  his  part  for 
a  joke.    It  was  a  regular  Babel. 

Donna  Matilda.  And  you  can  imagine,  doctor,  what 
terror  struck  into  us  when  we  understood  that  he,  on  the 
contrary,  was  playing  his  part  in  deadly  earnest  .  .  . 


[Act  I]  "HENRY   IVr  95 

Doctor.    Oh,  he  was  there  too,  was  he? 

Belcredi.  Of  course!  He  came  straight  Into  the  midst 
of  us.  We  thought  he'd  quite  recovered,  and  was  pretend- 
ing, fooling,  like  all  the  rest  of  us  .  .  .only  doing  it  rather 
better;  because,  as  I  say,  he  knew  how  to  act. 

Donna  Matilda.  Some  of  them  began  to  hit  him  with 
their  whips  and  fans  and  sticks. 

Belcredi.  And  then — as  a  king,  he  was  armed,  of  course 
— he  drew  out  his  sword  and  menaced  two  or  three  of  us 
...  It  was  a  terrible  moment,  I  can  assure  you ! 

Donna  Matilda.  I  shall  never  forget  that  scene — all 
our  masked  faces  hideous  and  terrified  gazing  at  him,  at  that 
terrible  mask  of  his  face,  which  was  no  longer  a  mask,  but 
madness,  madness  personified. 

Belcredi.  He  was  Henry  IV.,  Henry  IV.  in  person,  in 
a  moment  of  fury. 

Donna  Matilda.  He'd  got  into  it  all  the  detail  and 
minute  preparation  of  a  month's  careful  study.  And  it  all 
burned  and  blazed  there  in  the  terrible  obsession  which  lit 
his  face. 

Doctor.  Yes,  that  is  quite  natural,  of  course.  The 
momentary  obsession  of  a  dilettante  became  fixed,  owing  to 
the  fall  and  the  damage  to  the  brain. 

Belcredi  {to  Frida  and  Di  Nolli).  You  see  the  kind  of 
jokes  life  can  play  on  us.  (To  Di  Nolli)  :  You  were  four 
or  five  years  old.  ( To  Frida)  :  Your  mother  imagines  you've 
taken  her  place  there  in  that  portrait;  when,  at  the  time, 
she  had  not  the  remotest  idea  that  she  would  bring  you  into 
the  world.  My  hair  is  already  grey ;  and  he — look  at  him — 
{points  to  portrait) — ha!  A  smack  on  the  head,  and  he 
never  moves  again :  Henry  IV.  for  ever ! 

Doctor  {seeking  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  others,  look- 
ing learned  and  imposing).  — Well,  well,  then  it  comes,  we 
may  say,  to  this  .  .  . 


96  ''HENRY  IVr  [Act  I] 

{Suddenly  the  first  exit  to  right,  the  one  nearest  footlights, 
opens,  and  Berthold  enters  all  excited). 

Berthold  {rushing  in).  I  say!  I  say!  {Stops  for  a 
moment,  arrested  by  the  astonishment  which  his  appearance 
has  caused  in  the  others). 

Frida  {running  away  terrified).  Oh  dear!  oh  dear!  it's 
he,  it's  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda  {covering  her  face  with  her  hands  so 
as  not  to  see).    Is  it,  is  it  he? 

Di  NoLLi.  No,  no,  what  are  you  talking  about?  Be 
calm! 

Doctor.    Who  is  it  then? 

Belcredi.    One  of  our  masqueraders. 

Di  NoLLl.  He  is  one  of  the  four  youths  we  keep  here  to 
help  him  out  in  his  madness  .  .  . 

Berthold.    I  beg  your  pardon.  Marquis  .  .  . 

Dl  NoLLi.  Pardon  be  damned!  I  gave  orders  that  the 
doors  were  to  be  closed,  and  that  nobody  should  be  allowed 
to  enter. 

Berthold.  Yes,  sir,  but  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,  and 
I  ask  you  to  let  me  go  away  this  very  minute. 

Di  Nolli.  Oh,  you're  the  new  valet,  are  you  ?  You  were 
supposed  to  begin  this  morning,  weren't  you  ? 

Berthold.    Yes,  sir,  and  I  can't  stand  it,  I  can't  bear  it. 

'Doi<ii<i A  ^Iatii^ha  {to  Di  Nolli  excitedly).  What?  Then 
he's  not  so  calm  as  you  said  ? 

Berthold  {quickly).  — No,  no,  my  lady,  it  isn't  he; 
1  it's  my  companions.  You  say  "help  him  out  with  his  mad- 
l  ness,"  Marquis;  but  they  don't  do  anything  of  the  kind. 
■  They're  the  real  madmen.  I  come  here  for  the  first  time, 
'  and  instead  of  helping  me  .  .  . 

{Landolph  and  Harold  come  in  from  the  same  door,  but 
hesitate  on  the  threshold). 

Landolph.    Excuse  me? 


I 


[Act  I]  ''HENRY   IVr  97 

Harold.     May  I  come  in,  my  Lord? 

Di  NoLLi.  Come  in!  What's  the  matter?  What  are 
you  all  doing? 

Frida.  Oh  God!  I'm  frightened!  I'm  going  to  run 
away.      {Makes  towards  exit  at  Left). 

Dl  NoLLi   {restraining  her  at  once).     No,  no,  Frida! 

Landolph.  My  Lord,  this  fool  here  .  .  .  {indicates 
Berthold). 

Berthold  {protesting) .  Ah,  no  thanks,  my  friends,  no 
thanks!     I'm  not  stopping  here!     I'm  off! 

Landolph.  What  do  you  mean  —  you're  not  stopping 
here  ? 

Harold.  He's  ruined  everything,  my  Lord,  running  away 
in  here! 

Landolph.  He's  made  him  quite  mad.  We  can't  keep 
him  in  there  any  longer.  He's  given  orders  that  he's  to  be 
arrested;  and  he  wants  to  "judge"  him  at  once  from,  the 
throne:    What  is  to  be  done? 

Di  Nolli.  Shut  the  door,  man!  Shut  the  door!  Go 
and  close  that  door!     {Landolph  goes  over  to  close  it). 

Harold.  Ordulph,  alone,  won't  be  able  to  keep  him 
there. 

Landolph.  — My  Lord,  perhaps  if  we  could  announce 
the  visitors  at  once,  it  would  turn  his  thoughts.  Have  the 
gentlemen  thought  under  what  pretext  they  will  present 
themselves  to  him? 

Dl  NoLLL  — It's  all  been  arranged!  {To  the  Doctor)  : 
If  you,  doctor,  think  it  well  to  see  him  at  once.   .  .  . 

Frida.  I'm  not  coming!  I'm  not  coming!  I'll  keep 
out  of  this.  You  too,  mother,  for  Heaven's  sake,  come  away 
with  me! 

Doctor.  — I  say  ...  I  suppose  he's  not  armed,  is 
he? 

Di  Nolli.    — Nonsense!     Of  course  not.     {To  Frida): 


98  ''HENRY  IVr  [Act  I] 

Frida,  you  know  this  Is  childish  of  you.     You  wanted  to 
come! 

Frida.     I  didn't  at  all.     It  was  mother's  idea. 

Donna  Matilda.  And  Fm  quite  ready  to  see  him. 
What  are  we  going  to  do? 

Belcredi.  Must  we  absolutely  dress  up  in  some  fashion 
or  other? 

Landolph.      — Absolutely    essential,    indispensable,    sir. 
Alas!  as  you  see  .  .  .     {shows  his  costume),  there'd  be  awful 
trouble  if  he  saw  you  gentlemen  in  modern  dress. 
I       Harold.     He  would  think  it  was  some  diabolical  mas- 
l  querade. 

Di  NoLLi.  As  these  men  seem  to  be  in  costume  to  you, 
so  we  appear  to  be  in  costume  to  him,  in  these  modern  clothes 
of  ours. 

Landolph.  It  wouldn't  matter  so  much  if  he  wouldn't 
suppose  it  to  be  the  work  of  his  mortal  enemy. 

Belcredi.     Pope  Gregory  VII.? 

Landolph.     Precisely.     He  calls  him  "a  pagan." 

Belcredi.    The  Pope  a  pagan?    Not  bad  that! 

Landolph.  — Yes,  sir, — and  a  man  who  calls  up  the 
dead!  He  accuses  him  of  all  the  diabolical  arts.  He's 
terribly  afraid  of  him. 

Doctor.     Persecution  mania! 

Harold.     He'd  be  simply  furious. 

Di  NoLLi  {to  Belcredi).  But  there's  no  need  for  you  to 
be  there,  you  know.    It's  sufficient  for  the  doctor  to  see  him. 

Doctor.    — What  do  you  mean  ?  .  .  .  I  ?    Alone  ? 

Di  Nolli.  — But  they  are  there  {indicates  the  three 
young  men). 

Doctor.  I  don't  mean  that  ...  I  mean  if  the  Mar- 
chioness .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  Of  course.  I  mean  to  see  him  too, 
naturally.     I  want  to  see  him  again. 


tAcT  I]  ''HENRY   IVr  99 

Frida.  Oh,  why,  mother,  why  ?  Do  come  away  with  me, 
I  implore  you ! 

Donna  Matilda  {imperiously).  Let  me  do  as  I  wish! 
I  came  here  for  this  purpose!  {To  Landolph)  :  I  shall  be 
''Adelaide,"  the  mother. 

Landolph.  Excellent!  The  mother  of  the  Empress 
Bertha.  Good!  It  will  be  enough  if  her  Ladyship  wears 
the  ducal  crown  and  puts  on  a  mantle  that  will  hide  her 
other  clothes  entirely.     {To  Harold)  :  Off  you  go,  Harold! 

Harold.  Wait  a  moment!  And  this  gentleman  here 
{alludes  to  the  Doctor)  f  .  .  . 

Doctor.  — Ah  yes  ...  we  decided  I  was  to  be  .  .  . 
the  Bishop  of  Cluny,  Hugh  of  Cluny ! 

Harold.  The  gentleman  means  the  Abbot.  Very  good  I 
Hugh  of  Cluny. 

Landolph.    — He's  often  been  here  before! 

Doctor  {amazed).    — What?     Been  here  before? 

Landolph.  — Don't  be  alarmed!  I  mean  that  it's  an 
easily  prepared  disguise  .  .  . 

Harold.  We've  made  use  of  it  on  other  occasions,  you 
see! 

Doctor.    But  .  .  , 

Landolph.  Oh  no,  there's  no  risk  of  his  remembering. 
He  pays  more  attention  to  the  dress  than  to  the  person. 

Donna  Matilda.    That's  fortunate  for  me  too  then. 

Di  NoLLi.  Frida,  you  and  I'll  get  along.  Come  on 
Tito! 

Belcredi.  Ah  no.  If  she  {indicates  the  Marchioness) 
stops  here,  so  do  I ! 

DoNNA  Matilda.    But  I  don't  need  you  at  all. 

Belcredi.  You  may  not  need  me,  but  I  should  like  to 
see  him  again  myself.     Mayn't  I? 

Landolph.  Well,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  there 
were  three. 


100  ''HENRY  IVr  [Act  I] 

Harold.    How  is  the  gentleman  to  be  dressed  then? 

Belcredi.    Oh,  try  and  find  some  easy  costume  for  me. 

Landolph  (to  Harold).  Hum!  Yes  .  .  .  he'd  better 
be  from  Cluny  too. 

Belcredi.    What  do  you  mean — from  Cluny? 

Landolph.  A  Benedictine's  habit  of  the  Abbey  of  Cluny. 
He  can  be  in  attendance  on  Monsignor.  ( To  Harold)  : 
Off  you  go!  (To  Berthold).  And  you  too  get  away  and 
keep  out  of  sight  all  today.  No,  wait  a  bit!  (To  Bert- 
hold)  :  You  bring  here  the  costumes  he  will  give  you.  (To 
Harold)  :  You  go  at  once  and  announce  the  visit  of  the 
''Duchess  Adelaide"  and  "Monsignor  Hugh  of  Cluny."  Do 
you  understand?  (Harold  and  Berthold  go  off  by  the  first 
door  on  the  Right). 

Di  NoLLi.  We'll  retire  now.  (Goes  off  with  Frida, 
left). 

Doctor.  Shall  I  be  a  persona  grata  to  him,  as  Hugh  of 
Cluny  ? 

Landolph.  Oh,  rather!  Don't  worry  about  that!  Mon- 
signor has  always  been  received  here  with  great  respect. 
You  too,  my  Lady,  he  will  be  glad  to  see.  He  never  forgets 
that  it  was  owing  to  the  intercession  of  you  two  that  he  was 
admitted  to  the  Castle  of  Canossa  and  the  presence  of 
Gregory  VII.,  who  didn't  want  to  receive  him. 

Belcredl     And  what  do  I  do? 

Landolph.  You  stand  a  little  apart,  respectfully:  that's 
all. 

Donna  Matilda  (irritated,,  nervous).  You  would  do 
well  to  go  away,  you  know. 

Belcredi  (slowly,  spitefully).  How  upset  you  seem !  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda  (proudly).  I  am  as  I  am.  Leave  me 
alone ! 

(Berthold  comes  in  with  the  costumes). 


[Act  I]  "HENRY   IV."  101 

Landolph  {seeing  him  enter).  Ah,  the  costumes:  here 
they  are.    This  mantle  is  for  the  Marchioness  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  Wait  a  minute!  I'll  take  off  my 
hat.      {Does  so  and  gives  it  to  Berthold). 

Landolph.  Put  it  down  there!  {Then  to  the  Mar- 
chioness, while  he  offers  to  put  the  ducal  crown  on  her  head). 
Allow  me! 

Donna  Matilda.  Dear,  dear!  Isn't  there  a  mirror 
here? 

Landolph.  Yes,  there's  one  there  {points  to  the  door 
on  the  Left).  If  the  Marchioness  would  rather  put  it  on 
herself  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  Yes,  yes,  that  will  be  better.  Give 
it  to  me!  {Takes  up  her  hat  and  goes  off  with  Berthold, 
who  carries  the  cloak  and  the  crown). 

Belcredi.  Well,  I  must  say,  I  nerer  thought  I  should 
be  a  Benedictine  monk !  By  the  way,  this  business  must  cost 
an  awful  lot  of  money. 

The  Doctor.    Likp  any  other  fantasy,  naturally  1_^ 

Belcredi.     Well,  there's  a  fortune  to  go  upon. 

Landolph.  We  have  got  there  a  whole  wardrobe  of 
costumes  of  the  period,  copied  to  perfection  from  old  models. 
This  is  my  special  job.  I  get  them  from  the  best  theatrical 
costumers.  They  cost  lots  of  money.  {Donna  Matilda  re- 
enters, wearing  mantle  and  crown). 

Belcredi  {at  once,  in  admiration).  Oh  magnificent! 
Oh,  truly  regal! 

Donna  Matilda  {looking  at  Belcredi  and  bursting  out 
into  laughter).  Oh  no,  no!  Take  it  off!  You're  impos- 
sible.   You  look  like  an  ostrich  dressed  up  as  a  monk. 

Belcredi.    Well,  how  about  the  doctor  ? 

The  Doctor.    I  don't  think  I  look  so  bad,  do  I? 

Donna  Matilda.  No;  the  doctor's  all  right  .  .  .  but 
you  are  too  funny  for  words. 


102     ..  ;  ;..'/;  ''henry  ivr  [Act  I] 

The  Doctor.    Do  you  have  many  receptions  here  then" 

Landolph.  It  depends.  He  often  gives  orders  that  such 
and  such  a  person  appear  before  him.  Then  v^^e  have  to 
find  someone  vi^ho  vv^ill  take  the  part.    Women  too  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda  {hurt,  but  trying  to  hide  the  fact). 
Ah,  women  too? 

Landolph.     Oh,  yes;  many  at  first. 

Belcredi  (laughing).  Oh,  that's  great!  In  costume, 
like  the  Marchioness? 

Landolph.  Oh  well,  you  know,  women  of  the  kind  tha 
lend  themselves  to  .  .  . 

Belcredl  Ah,  I  see!  {Perfidiously  to  the  Marchioness) 
Look  out,  you  know  he's  becoming  dangerous  for  you. 

(  The  second  door  on  the  right  opens,  and  Harold  appear^ 
making  first  of  all  a  discreet  sign  that  all  conversation  should 
cease). 

Harold.    His  Majesty,  the  Emperor! 

( The  two  valets  enter  first,  and  go  and  stand  on  e'^jher  sid( 
of  the  throne.  Then  Henry  IV,  comes  in  between  Ordulpl 
and  Harold,  who  keep  a  little  in  the  rear  respectfully. 

Henry  IV.  is  about  50  and  very  pale.  The  hair  on  thi 
back  of  his  head  is  already  grey;  over  the  temples  and  fore- 
head it  appears  blond,  owing  to  its  having  been  tinted  in  an 
evident  and  puerile  fashion.  On  his  cheek  bones  he  has  two 
small,  doll-like  dabs  of  colour,  that  stand  out  prominently 
against  the  rest  of  his  tragic  pallor.  He  is  wearing  a  peni- 
tent's sack  over  his  regal  habit,  as  at  Canossa.  His  eyes  have 
a  fixed  look  which  is  dreadful  to  see,  and  this  expression  is 
in  strained  contrast  with  the  sackcloth.  Ordulph  carries  the 
Imperial  crown;  Harold,  the  sceptre  with  the  eagle,  and  the 
globe  with  the  cross). 

Henry  IV.  {bowing  first  to  Donna  Matilda  and  after- 
wards  to    the    doctor).      My   lady  .  .  .      Monsignor  .  .  . 


[Act  I]  "HENRY  IVr  103 

(  Then  he  looks  at  Belcredi  and  seems  about  to  greet  him  too; 
when,  suddenly  J  he  turns  to  Landolph,  who  has  approached 
him,  and  asks  him  sotto  voce  and  with  diffidence) :  Is  that 
Peter  Damiani? 

Landolph.     No,  Sire.     He  is  a  monk  from  Cluny  who 
is  accompanying  the  Abbot. 

Henry  IV.  {looks  again  at  Belcredi  with  increasing  mis- 
trust, and  then  noticing  that  he  appears  embarrassed  and 
keeps  glancing  at  Donna  Matilda  and  the  doctor,  stands  up- 
right and  cries  out).  No,  it's  Peter  Damiani!  It's  no  use, 
father,  your  looking  at  the  Duchess.  ( Then  turning  quickly 
to  Donna  Matilda  and  the  doctor  as  though  to  ward  off  a 
danger)  :  I  swear  it!  I  swear  that  my  heart  is  changed  towards 
your  daughter.  I  confess  that  if  he  {indicates  Belcredi) 
hadn't  come  to  forbid  it  in  the  name  of  Pope  Alexander,  I'd 
have  repudiated  her.  Yes,  yes,  there  were  people  ready  to 
favour  the  repudiation:  the  Bishop  of  Mayence  would  have 
done  it  for  a  matter  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  farms. 
{Looks  at  Landolph  a  little  perplexed  and  adds)  :  But  I 
mustn't  speak  ill  of  the  bishops  at  this  moment!  {More  hum- 
bly to  Belcredi)  :  I  am  grateful  to  you,  believe  me,  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you  for  the  hindrance  you  put  in  my  way ! — God  knows, 
my  life's  been  all  made  of  humiliations:  my  mother,  Adal- 
bert, Tribur,  Goslar!  And  now  this  sackcloth  you  see  me 
wearing!  {Changes  tone  suddenly  and  speaks  like  one  who 
goes  over  his  part  in  a  parenthesis  of  astuteness) .  It  doesn't 
matter:  clarity  of  ideas,  perspicacity,  firmness  and  patience 
under  adversity  that's  the  thing.  {Then  turning  to  all  and  \ 
speaking  solemnly).  I  know  how  to  make  amend  for  the  \, 
..mistakes  I  have  made;  and  I  can  humiliate  myself  even  | 
_before  you,  Peter  Damiani.  {Bows  profoundly  to  him  and  \ 
remains  curved.  Then  a  suspicion  is  born  in  him  which  he 
is  obliged  to  utter  in  menacing  tones,  almost  against  his  will). 
Was  it  not  perhaps  you  who  started  that  obscene  rumour  that 


104  ''HENRY   IV r  [Act  I] 

my  holy  mother   had    illicit   relations  with   the   Bishop   of 
Augusta? 

Belcredi  {since  Henry  IV.  has  his  finger  pointed  at  him). 
No,  no,  it  wasn't  I  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  {straightening  up).  Not  true,  not  true? 
Infamy!  {Looks  at  him  and  then  adds)  :  I  didn't  think  you 
capable  of  it!  {Goes  to  the  doctor  and  plucks  his  sleeve,, 
while  winking  at  him  knowingly)  :  Always  the  same,  Mon- 
signor,  those  bishops,  always  the  same! 

Harold  {softly,  whispering  as  if  to  help  out  the  doctor). 
Yes,  3^es,  the  rapacious  bishops! 

The  Doctor  {to  Harold,  trying  to  keep  it  up).  Ah,  yes, 
those  fellows  ...  ah  yes  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  Nothing  satisfies  them!  I  was  a  little  boy, ' 
Monsignor  .  .  .  One  passes  the  time,  playing  even,  when, 
without  knowing  it,  one  is  a  king. — I  was  six  years  old; 
and  they  tore  me  away  from  my  mother,  and  made  use  of 
me  against  her  without  my  knowing  anything  about  it  .  .  . 
always  profaning,  always  stealing,  stealing!  .  .  .  One 
greedier  than  the  other  .  .  .  Hanno  worse  than  Stephen! 
Stephen  worse  than  Hanno! 

Landolph  {sotto  voce,  persuasively,  to  call  his  attention). 
Majesty! 

Henry  IV.  {turning  round  quickly).  Ah  yes  .  .  .  this 
isn't  the  moment  to  speak  ill  of  the  bishops.  But  this  infamy 
against  my  mother,  Monsignor,  is  too  much.  {Looks  at  the 
Marchioness  and  grows  tender).  And  I  can't  even  weep 
for  her.  Lady  ...  I  appeal  to  you  who  have  a  mother's 
heart!  She  came  here  to  see  me  from  her  convent  a  month 
ago  .  .  .  They  had  told  me  she  was  dead!  {Sustained 
pause  full  of  feeling.  Then  smiling  sadly)  :  I  can't  weep 
for  her;  because  if  you  are  here  now,  and  I  am  like  this 
{shows  the  sack<;loth  he  is  wearing)  ^  it  means  I  am  twenty- 
six  years  old ! 


[Act  I]  "HENRY   IVr  105 

Harold.    And  that  she  is  therefore  alive,  Majesty!  .  .  . 

Ordulph.     Still  in  her  convent! 

Henry  IV.    {looking  at  them).     Ah  yes!     And  I  can 
postpone  my  grief  to  another  time.     {Shows  the  Marchioness     a', 
almost  with   coquetery  the  tint  he  has  given  to  his  hair).     I; 
Look!     I  am  still  fair  .  .  .    {Then  slowly  as  if  in  confid-     "' 
ence).     For  you  .  .  .  there's  no  need!     But  little  exterior 
details  do  help!     A  matter  of   time,   Monsignor,   do  you 
understand  me?      {Turns  to  the  Marchioness  and  notices 
her  hair).    Ah,  but  I  see  that  you  too,  Duchess  .  .  .  Italian,  v      -^ 
ch  {as  much  as  to  say  "false'' ;  but  without  any  indignation,^^    / 
indeed  rather  with  malicious  admiration)?     Heaven  forbid 
that  I  should  show  disgust  or  surprise!     Nobody  cares  to 
recognize  that  obscure  and  fatal  power  which  sets  limits  to 
pur  will.     But  I  say,  if  one  is  born  and  one  dies  .  .  .  Did 
you  want  to  be  born,  Monsignor?     I  didn't!     And  in  both 
cases,  independently  of  our  wills,  so  many  things  happen  we      '| 
would  wish  didn't  happen,  and  to  which  we  resign  ourselves       V 
as  best  we  can!  .  .  . 

Doctor  {merely  to  make  a  remark,  while  studying  Henry 
IV.  carefully).    Alas!    Yes,  alas! 

Henry  IV.  It's  like  this:  When  we  are  not  resigned, 
out  come  our  desires.  A  woman  wants  to  be  a  man  ...  ^ 
an  old  man  would  be  young  again.  Desires,  ridiculous  fixed  ^ 
ideas  of  course — But  reflect!  Monsignor,  those  other  de- 
sires are  not  less  ridiculous :  I  mean,  those  desires  where  the 
will  is  kept  within  the  limits  of  the  possible.  Not  one  of  us 
can  lie  or  pretend.  We're  all  fixed  in  good  faith  in  a  certain 
concept  of  ourselves.  However,  Monsignor,  while  you  keep 
yourself  in  order,  holding  on  with  both  your  hands  to  your 
holy  habit,  there  slips  down  from  your  sleeves,  there  peels 
off  from  you  like  .  .  .  like  a  serpent  .  .  .  something  you 
don't  notice:  life,  Monsignor!  {Turns  to  the  Marchioness)  : 
Has  it  never  happened  to  you,  my  Lady,  to  find  a  different 


106  ''HENRY  IVr  [Act  I] 

self  in  yourself?  Have  you  always  been  the  same?  My 
God!  One  day  .  .  .  how  was  it,  how  was  it  you  were 
able  to  commit  this  or  that  action?  (Fixes  her  so  intently  in 
the  eyes  as  almost  to  make  her  blanch)  :  Yes,  that  particular 
action,  that  very  one :  we  understand  each  other !  But  don't 
be  afraid :  I  shall  reveal  it  to  none.  And  you,  Peter  Damiani, 
how  could  you  be  a  friend  of  that  man  ?  .  .  . 

Landolph.     Majesty! 

Henry  IV.  {at  once).  No,  I  won't  name  him!  {Turn- 
ing to  Belcredi)  :  What  did  you  think  of  him?  But  we  all 
of  us  cling  tight  to  our  conceptions  of  ourselves,  just  as  he 
who  is  growing  old  dyes  his  hair.  What  does  it  matter  that 
this  dyed  hair  of  mine  isn't  a  reality  for  you,  if  it  is,  to  some 
extent,  for  me? — you,  you,  my  Lady,  certainly  don't  dye 
your  hair  to  deceive  the  others,  nor  even  yourself;  but  only 
to  cheat  your  own  image  a  little  before  the  looking-glass, 
I  do  it  for  a  joke!  You  do  it  seriously!  But  I  assure  you 
that  you  too,  Madam,  are  in  masquerade,  though  it  be  in  all 
seriousness;  and  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  venerable  crown 
on  your  brows  or  the  ducal  mantle.  I  am  speaking  only  of 
the  memory  you  wish  to  fix  in  yourself  of  your  fair  com- 
plexion one  day  when  it  pleased  you — or  of  your  dark  com- 
plexion, if  you  were  dark:  the  fading  image  of  your  youth! 
For  you,  Peter  Damiani,  on  the  contrary,  the  memory  of 
what  you  have  been,  of  what  you  have  done,  seems  to  you  a 
recognition  of  past  realities  that  remain  within  you  like  a 
dream.  I'm  in  the  same  case  too :  with  so  many  inexplicable 
memories — like  dreams!  Ah!  .  .  .  There's  nothing  to  mar- 
vel at  in  it,  Peter  Damiani!  Tomorrow  it  will  be  the 
same  thing  with  our  life  of  today!  {Suddenly  getting  excited 
and  taking  hold  of  his  sackcloth).  This  sackcloth  here  .  .  . 
{Beginning  to  take  it  off  with  a  gesture  of  almost  ferocious 
joy  while  the  three  valets  run  over  to  him,  frightened,  as 
if  to  prevent  his  doing  so)  I    Ah,  my  God!      {Draws  back 


[Act  I]  ''HENRY  IVr  107 

and  throws  off  sackcloth).  Tomorrow,  at  Bressanone, 
twenty-seven  German  and  Lombard  bishops  will  sign  with 
me  the  act  of  deposition  of  Gregory  VII.!  No  Pope  at  all! 
Just  a  false  monk ! 

Ordulph  {with  the  other  three).  Majesty!  Majesty! 
In  God's  name!  .  .  . 

Harold  {inviting  him  to  put  on  the  sackcloth  again). 
Listen  to  what  he  says,  Majesty! 

Landolph.  Monsignor  is  here  with  the  Duchess  to  in- 
tercede in  your  favor.  {Makes  secret  signs  to  the  Doctor  to 
say  something  at  once). 

Doctor  {foolishly).  Ah  yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  we  are  here 
to  intercede  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  {repeating  at  once,  almost  terrified,  allowing 
the  three  to  put  on  the  sackcloth  again,  and  pulling  it  down 
over  him  with  his  own  hands).  Pardon  .  .  .  yes  ,  .  .  yes 
.  .  .  pardon,  Monsignor:  forgive  me,  my  Lady  ...  I 
swear  to  you  I  feel  the  whole  weight  of  the  anathema. 
{Bends  himself,  takes  his  face  between  his  hands,  as  though 
waiting  for  something  to  crush  him.  Then  changing  tone, 
but  without  moving,  says  softly  to  Landolph,  Harold  and 
Ordulph)  :  But  I  don't  know  why  I  cannot  be  humble  be- 
fore that  man  there!  {indicates  Belcredi). 

Landolph  {sottovoce) .  But  why,  Majesty,  do  you  insist 
on  believing  he  is  Peter  Damiani,  when  he  isn't,  at  all? 

Henry  IV.  {looking  at  him  timorously).  He  isn't  Peter 
Damiani  ? 

Harold.     No,  no,  he  is  a  poor  monk.  Majesty. 

Henry  IV.  {sadly  with  a  touch  of  exasperation).  Ah! 
None  of  us  can  estimate  what  w^e  do  when  we  do  it  from 
instinct  .  .  .  You  perhaps.  Madam,  can  understand  me 
better  than  the  others,  since  you  are  a  woman  and  a  Duchess. 
This  is  a  solemn  and  decisive  moment.  I  could,  you  know, 
accept  the  assistance  of  the  Lombard  bishops,  arrest  the  Pope, 


108  ''HENRY   IVr  [Act  I] 

lock  him  up  here  in  the  c?astle,  run  to  Rome  and  elect  an 
anti-Pope;  offer  alliance  to  Robert  Guiscard — and  Gregory 
VII.  would  be  lost!  I  resist  the  temptation;  and,  believe 
me,  I  am  wise  in  doing  so.  I  feel  the  atmosphere  of  our 
times  and  the  majesty  of  one  who  know^s  how  to  be  what  he 
ought  to  be!  a  Pope!  Do  you  feel  inclined  to  laugh  at  me, 
seeing  me  like  this?  You  would  be  foolish  to  do  so;  for  you 
don't  understand  the  political  wisdom  which  makes  this 
penitent's  sack  advisable.  The  parts  may  be  changed  tomor- 
row. What  would  you  do  then?  Would  you  laugh  to  see 
the  Pope  a  prisoner?  No!  It  would  come  to  the  same 
thing:  I  dressed  as  a  penitent,  today;  he,  as  prisoner  to- 
morrow! But  woe  to  him  who  doesn't  know  how  to  wear 
his  mask,  be  he  king  or  Pope! — Perhaps  he  is  a  bit  too 
cruel!  No!  Yes,  yes,  maybe! — You  remember,  my  Lady, 
how  your  daughter  Bertha,  for  whom,  I  repeat,  my  feelings 
have  changed  {turns  to  Belcredi  and  shouts  to  his  face  as  if 
he  were  being  contradicted  by  him) — yes,  changed  on  account 
of  the  affection  and  devotion  she  showed  me  in  that  terrible 
moment  .  .  .  {then  once  again  to  the  Marchioness)  .  .  . 
you  remember  how  she  came  with  me,  my  Lady,  followed 
me  like  a  beggar  and  passed  two  nights  out  in  the  open,  in 
the  snow?  You  are  her  mother!  Doesn't  this  touch  your 
mother's  heart?  Doesn't  this  urge  you  to  pity,  so  that  you 
will  beg  His  Holiness  for  pardon,  beg  him  to  receive  us? 

Donna  Matilda  {trembling,  with  feeble  voice).  Yes, 
yes,  at  once  .  .  . 

Doctor.    It  shall  be  done! 

Henry  IV.  And  one  thing  more!  {Draws  them  in  to 
listen  to  him).  It  isn't  enough  that  he  should  receive  me! 
You  know  he  can  do  everything — everything  I  tell  you !  He 
can  even  call  up  the  dead.  {Touches  his  chest):  Behold 
me!  Do  you  see  me?  There  is  no  magic  art  unknown  to 
him.    Well,  Monsignor,  my  Lady,  my  torment  is  really  this : 


[Act  I]  "HENRY   IVr  109 

that  whether  here  or  there  {pointing  to  his  portrait  almost 
in  fear)  I  can't  free  myself  from  this  magic.  I  am  a  penitent 
now,  you  see;  and  I  swear  to  you  I  shall  remain  so  until 
he  receives  me.  But  you  two,  when  the  excommunication  is 
taken  off,  must  ask  the  Pope  to  do  this  thing  he  can  so 
easily  do:  to  take  me  away  from  that  {indicating  the  por- 
trait again )  ;  and  let  me  live  wholly  and  freely  my  miserable 
life.  A  man  can't  always  be  twenty-six,  my  Lady.  I  ask 
this  of  you  for  your  daughter's  sake  too;  that  I  may  love 
her  as  she  deserves  to  be  loved,  well  disposed  as  I  am  now, 
all  tender  towards  her  for  her  pity.  There:  it's  all  there! 
I  am  in  your  hands!     {Bows).     My  Lady!     Monsignor! 

{He  goes  off,  bowing  grandly,  through  the  door  by  which 
he  entered,  leaving  everyone  stupefied,  and  the  Marchioness 
so  profoundly  touched,  that  no  sooner  has  he  gone  than  she 
breaks  out  into  sobs  and  sits  down  almost  fainting). 


ACT  II 

{Another  room  of  the  villa,  adjoining  the  throne  room. 
Its  furniture  is  antique  and  severe.  Principal  exit  at  rear  in 
the  background.  To  the  left,  two  windows  looking  on  the 
garden.     To  the  right,  d  door  opening  into  the  throne  room. 

Late  afternoon  of  the  same  day. 

Donna  Matilda,  the  doctor  and  Belcredi  are  on  the  stage 
engaged  in  conversation;  hut  Donna  Matilda  stands  to  one 
side,  evidently  annoyed  at  what  the  other  two  are  saying; 
although  she  cannot  help  listening,  because,  in  her  agitated 
state,  everything  interests  her  in  spite  of  herself.  The  talk  of 
the  other  two  attracts  her  attention,  because  she  instinctively 
feels  the  need  for  calm  at  the  moment). 

Belcredi.  It  may  be  as  you  say,  doctor,  but  that  was  my 
impression. 

Doctor.  I  won't  contradict  you;  but,  believe  me,  it  is 
only  ...  an  impression. 

Belcredi.  Pardon  me,  but  he  even  said  so,  and  quite 
clearly  {turning  to  the  Marchioness).  Didn't  he,  Mar- 
chioness ? 

Donna  Matilda  {turning  round).  What  did  he  say? 
.  .  .  {Then  not  agreeing).  Oh  yes  .  .  .  but  not  for  the 
reason  you  think! 

Doctor.  He  was  alluding  to  the  costumes  we  had 
slipped  on  .  .  .  Your  cloak  {indicating  the  Marchioness) y 
our  Benedictine  habits  .  .  .  But  all  this  is  childish! 

Donna  Matilda  {turning  quickly,  indignant).  Child- 
ish ?    What  do  you  mean,  doctor  ? 

110 


[Act  II]  "HENRY   IV ^  \U 

Doctor.  From  one  point  of  view,  It  Is — I  beg  you  to 
let  me  say  so,  Marchioness!  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  It  is 
much  more  complicated  than  you  can  imagine. 

Donna  Matilda.  To  me,  on  the  contrary,  it  Is  perfectly 
clear ! 

Doctor  {with  a  smile  of  pity  of  the  competent  persort 
towards  those  who  do  not  understand) .  We  must  take  into 
account  the  peculiar  psychology  of  madmen ;  which,  you  must 
know,  enables  us  to  be  certain  that  they  observe  things  and 
can,  for  instance,  easily  detect  people  who  are  disguised ;  can 
in  fact  recognize  the  disguise  and  yet  believe  in  it;  just  as 
children  do,  for  whom  disguise  is  both  play  and  reality. 
That  Is  why  I  used  the  word  childish.  But  the  thing  is 
extremely  complicated.  Inasmuch  as  he  must  be  perfectly 
aware  of  being  an  image  to  himself  and  for  himself — that 
Image  there,  in  fact  {alluding  to  the  portrait  in  the  throne 
room,  and  pointing  to  the  left)  ! 

Belcredi.    That's  what  he  said ! 

Doctor.  Very  well  then — An  Image  before  which  other 
images,  ours,  have  appeared:  understand?  Now  he,  in  his 
acute  and  perfectly  lucid  delirium,  was  able  to  detect  at  once 
a  difference  between  his  image  and  ours:  that  is,  he  saw 
that  ours  were  make-believes.  So  he  suspected  us;  because 
all  madmen  are  armed  with  a  special  diffidence.  But  that's 
all  there  Is  to  it!  Our  make-believe,  built  up  all  round  his, 
did  not  seem  pitiful  to  him.  While  his  seemed  all  the  more 
tragic  to  us,  in  that  he,  as  if  In  defiance — understand  ? — and 
induced  by  his  suspicion,  wanted  to  show  us  up  merely  as 
a  joke.  That  was  also  partly  the  case  with  him,  in  coming 
before  us  with  painted  cheeks  and  hair,  and  saying  he  had 
done  it  on  purpose  for  a  jest. 

Donna  Matilda  {impatiently) .  No,  it's  not  that,  doo 
tor.     It's  not  like  that!     It's  not  like  that! 

Doctor.    Why  isn't  it,  may  I  ask? 


112  "HENRY   IV r  [Act  II] 

Donna  Matilda  {with  decision  but  trembling).  I  am 
perfectly  certain  he  recognized  me! 

Doctor.    It's  not  possible  .  .  .  it's  not  possible! 

Belcredi   {at  the  same  time).     Of  course  not! 

Donna  Matilda  {more  than  ever  determined,  almost 
convulsively ) .  I  tell  you,  he  recognized  me !  When  he  came 
close  up  to  speak  to  me — looking  in  my  eyes,  right  into  my 
eyes — he  recognized  me! 

Belcredl     But  he  was  talking  of  your  daughter! 

Donna  Matilda.  That's  not  true !  He  was  talking  of 
me!    Of  me! 

Belcredi.    Yes,  perhaps,  when  he  said  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda  {letting  herself  go).  About  my  dyed 
hair!  But  didn't  you  notice  that  he  added  at  once;  "or  the 
memory  of  your  dark  hair,  if  you  were  dark"  ?  He  remem- 
bered perfectly  well  that  I  was  dark — then! 

Belcredi.     Nonsense!  nonsense! 

Donna  Matilda  {not  listening  to  him,  turning  to  the 
doctor).  My  hair,  doctor,  is  really  dark — like  my  daugh- 
ter's !    That's  why  he  spoke  of  her. 

Belcredi.  But  he  doesn't  even  know  your  daughter! 
He's  never  seen  her! 

Donna  Matilda.  Exactly!  Oh,  you  never  understand 
anything!  By  my  daughter,  stupid,  he  meant  me — as  I  was 
then! 

Belcredi.  Oh,  this  is  catching!  This  is  catching,  this 
madness ! 

Donna  Matilda  {softly,  with  contempt).    Fool! 

Belcredi.  Excuse  me,  were  you  ever  his  wife?  Your 
daughter  is  his  wife — in  his  delirium:  Bertha  of  Susa. 

Donna  Matilda.  Exactly!  Because  I,  no  longer  dark 
— as  he  remembered  me — but  fair,  introduced  myself  as 
"Adelaide,"  the  mother.    My  daughter  doesn't  exist  for  him: 


[Act  II]  "HENRY   IV r  113 

he's  never  seen  her — you  said  so  yourself!  So  how  can  he 
know  whether  she's  fair  or  dark? 

Belcredi.  But  he  said  dark,  speaking  generally,  just  as 
anyone  who  wants  to  recall,  whether  fair  or  dark,  a  memory 
of  youth  in  the  color  of  the  hair!  And  you,  as  usual,  begin 
to  imagine  things!  Doctor,  you  said  I  ought  not  to  have 
come!    It's  she  who  ought  not  to  have  come! 

Donna  Matilda  {upset  for  a  moment  by  Belcredi  s  re- 
mark, recovers  herself.  Then  with  a  touch  of  anger,  because 
doubtful).  No,  no  ...  he  spoke  of  me  .  .  .  He  spoke  all 
the  time  to  me,  with  me,  of  me  .  .  . 

Belcredi.  That's  not  bad!  He  didn't  leave  me  a 
moment's  breathing  space;  and  you  say  he  was  talking  all 
the  time  to  you?  Unless  you  think  he  was  alluding  to  you 
too,  when  he  was  talking  to  Peter  Damiani ! 

Donna  Matilda  {defiantly,  almost  exceeding  the  limits 
of  courteous  discussion) .  Who  knows?  Can  you  tell  me 
why,  from  the  outset,  he  showed  a  strong  dislike  for  you, 
for  you  alone?  {From  the  tone  of  the  question,  the  expected 
answer  must  almost  explicitly  be:  "because  he  understands 
you  are  my  lover.''  Belcredi  feels  this  so  well  that  he  remains 
silent  and  can  say  nothing). 

Doctor.  The  reason  may  also  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
only  the  visit  of  the  Duchess  Adelaide  and  the  abbot  of 
Cluny  was  announced  to  him.  Finding  a  third  person 
present,  who  had  not  been  announced,  at  once  his  sus- 
picions .  .  . 

Belcredi.  Yes,  exactly!  His  suspicion  made  him  see  an 
enemy  in  me:  Peter  Damiani!  But  she's  got  it  into  her 
head,  that  he  recognized  her  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  There's  no  doubt  about  it!  I  could 
see  it  from  his  eyes,  doctor.  You  know,  there's  a  way  of 
looking  that  leaves  no  doubt  whatever  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was 
only  for  an  instant,  but  I  am  sure! 


114  ''HENRY   IV r  [Act  II] 

Doctor.  It  is  not  impossible :  a  lucid  moment  .  .  . 
h  Donna  Matilda.  Yes,  perhaps  .  .  .  And  then  his 
I  speech  seemed  to  me  full  of  regret  for  his  and  my  youth — 
[  for  the  horrible  thing  that  happened  to  him,  that  has  held 
1  him  in  that  disguise  from  which  he  has  never  been  able  to 
free  himself,  and  from  which  he  longs  to  be  free — ^he  said  so 
himself ! 

Belcredi.  Yes,  so  as  to  be  able  to  make  love  to  your 
daughter,  or  you,  as  you  believe — having  been  touched  by 
your  pity. 

Donna  Matilda.  Which  is  very  great,  I  would  ask  you 
to  believe. 

Belcredi.  As  one  can  see.  Marchioness;  so  much  so  that 
a  miracle-worker  might  expect  a  miracle  from  it! 

Doctor.  Will  you  let  me  speak  ?  I  don't  work  miracles, 
because  I  am  a  doctor  and  not  a  miracle-worker.  I  listened 
very  intently  to  all  he  said;  and  I  repeat  that  that  certain 
analogical  elasticity,  common  to  all  symptomatised  delirium, 
is  evidently  with  him  much  .  .  .  what  shall  I  say? — much 
relaxed!  The  elements,  that  is,  of  his  delirium  no  longer 
hold  together.  It  seems  to  me  he  has  lost  the  equilibrium 
of  his  second  personality  and  sudden  recollections  drag  him 
— and  this  is  very  comforting — not  from  a  state  of  incipient 
apathy,  but  rather  from  a  morbid  inclination  to  reflective 
melancholy,  which  shows  a  ...  a  very  considerable  cerebral 
activity.  Very  comforting,  I  repeat!  Now  if,  by  this 
violent  trick  we've  planned  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda  {turning  to  the  window ,  in  the  tone 
e/  a  sick  person  complaining) .  But  how  is  it  that  the  motor 
has  not  returned  ?    It's  three  hours  and  a  half  since  .  .  , 

Doctor.    What  do  you  say? 

Donna  Matilda.  The  motor,  doctor!  It's  more  than 
three  hours  and  a  half  .  .  . 


[Act  II]  ''HENRY   IV r  115 

Doctor  {taking  out  his  watch  and  looking  at  it).  Yes, 
more  than  four  hours,  by  this! 

Donna  Matilda.  It  could  have  reached  here  an  hour 
ago  at  least!     But,  as  usual  .  .  . 

Belcredi.     Perhaps  they  can't  find  the  dress  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  But  I  explained  exactly  where  it  was! 
(impatiently).     And  Frida  .  .   .  where  is  Frida? 

Belcredi  (looking  out  of  the  window).  Perhaps  she  is 
in  the  garden  with  Charles  .  .  . 

Doctor.     He'll  talk  her  out  of  her  fright. 

Belcredi.  She's  not  afraid,  doctor;  don't  you  believe 
it:  the  thing  bores  her  rather  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  Just  don't  ask  anything  of  her!  I 
know  what  she's  like. 

Doctor.  Let's  wait  patiently.  Anyhow,  it  will  soon  be 
over,  and  it  has  to  be  in  the  evening  ...  It  will  only  be 
the  matter  of  a  moment!  If  we  can  succeed  in  rousing  him, 
as  I  was  saying,  and  in  breaking  at  one  go  the  threads — 
already  slack — which  still  bind  him  to  this  fiction  of  his, 
giving  him  back  what  he  himself  asks  for — you  remem- 
ber, he  said :  "one  cannot  always  be  twenty-six  years  old, 
madam!"  if  we  can  give  him  freedom  from  this  torment, 
which  even  he  feels  is  a  torment,  then  if  he  is  able  to  re- 
cover at  one  bound  the  sensation  of  the  distance  of  time  .  .  . 

Belcredi  (quickly).  He'll  be  cured!  (then  emphatically 
with  irony).    We'll  pull  him  out  of  it  all! 

Doctor.  Yes,  we  may  hope  to  set  him  going  again,  like 
a  watch  which  has  stopped  at  a  certain  hour  .  .  .  just  as  if 
we  had  our  watches  in  our  hands  and  were  waiting  for  that 
other  watch  to  go  again. — A  shake — so — and  let's  hope  itll 
tell  the  time  again  after  its  long  stop.  (At  this  point  ike 
Marquis  Charlies  Di  Nolli  enters  from  the  principal  en- 
trance). 


116  "HENRY  IV r  [Act  II] 

Donna  Matilda.  Oh,  Charles!  .  .  .  And  Frida? 
Where  is  she  ? 

Di  NoLLi.    She'll  be  here  in  a  moment. 

Doctor.     Has  the  motor  arrived? 

Di  NoLLi.     Yes. 

Donna  Matilda.    Yes?    Has  the  dress  come? 

Di  Nolli.    It's  been  here  some  time. 

Doctor.    Good !    Good ! 

Donna  Matilda  (/r^w^/m^).  Where  is  she?  Where's 
Frida? 

Di  Nolli  {shrugging  his  shoulders  and  siniling  sadly,  like 
one  lending  himself  unwillingly  to  an  untimely  joke).  You'll 
see,  you'll  see!  .  .  .  {pointing  towards  the  hall).  Here  she 
is!  .  .  .  {Berthold  appears  at  the  threshold  of  the  hall,  and 
announces  with  solemnity) . 

Berthold.  Her  Highness  the  Countess  Matilda  of 
Canossa!  {Frida  enters,  magnificent  and  beautiful,  arrayed 
in  the  robes  of  her  mother  as  ''Countess  Matilda  of  Tuscany,'* 
so  that  she  is  a  living  copy  of  the  portrait  in  the  throne 
room). 

Frida  {passing  Berthold,  who  is  bowing,  says  to  him  with 
disdain).  Of  Tuscany,  of  Tuscany!  Canossa  is  just  one  of 
my  castles ! 

Belcredi  {in  admiration).  Look!  Look!  She  seems  an- 
other person  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  One  would  say  it  were  I!  Look! — 
Why,  Frida,  look!     She's  exactly  my  portrait,  alive! 

Doctor.  Yes,  yes  .  .  .  Perfect!  Perfect!  The  por- 
trait, to  the  life. 

Belcredi.  Yes,  there's  no  question  about  it.  She  is  the 
portrait !     Magnificent ! 

Frida.  Don't  make  me  laugh,  or  I  shall  burst!  I  say, 
mother,  what  a  tiny  waist  you  had?  I  had  to  squeeze  so  to 
get  into  this! 


[Act  II]  ''HENRY  IV."  117 

Donna  Matilda  {arranging  her  dress  a  little).  Wait! 
.  .  .  Keep  still!  ,  .  .  These  pleats  ...  is  it  really  so 
tight? 

Frida.    I'm  suffocating !    I  implore  you,  to  be  quick !  .  .  . 

Doctor.    But  we  must  wait  till  it's  evening! 

Frida.     No,  no,  I  can't  hold  out  till  evening! 

Donna  Matilda.    Why  did  you  put  it  on  so  soon  ? 

Frida.  The  moment  I  saw  it,  the  temptation  was  irre- 
sistible .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  At  least  you  could  have  called  me, 
or  have  had  someone  help  you!     It's  still  all  crumpled. 

Frida.  So  I  saw,  mother;  but  they  are  old  creases;  they 
won't  come  out. 

Doctor.  It  doesn't  matter.  Marchioness!  The  illusion 
is  perfect.  ( Then  coming  nearer  and  asking  her  to  come  in 
front  of  her  daughter,  without  hiding  her).  If  you  please, 
stay  there,  there  ...  at  a  certain  distance  .  .  .  now  a  little 
more  forward  .  .  . 

Belcredi.    For  the  feeling  of  the  distance  of  time  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda  {slightly  turning  to  him).  Twenty 
years  after !    A  disaster !      A  tragedy ! 

Belcredi.    Now  don't  let's  exaggerate! 

Doctor  {embarrassed,  trying  to  save  the  situation).  No, 
no !  I  meant  the  dress  ...  so  as  to  see  ..  .  You  know  .  .  . 

Belcredi  {laughing).  Oh,  as  for  the  dress,  doctor,  it 
isn't  a  matter  of  twenty  years!  It's  eight  hundred!  An 
abyss!  Do  you  really  want  to  shove  him  across  it  {point- 
ing first  to  Frida  and  then  to  Marchioness)  from  there  to 
here?  But  you'll  have  to  pick  him  up  in  pieces  with  a 
basket!  Just  think  now:  for  us  it  is  a  matter  of  twenty 
years,  a  couple  of  dresses,  and  a  masquerade.  But,  if,  as 
you  say,  doctor,  time  has  stopped  for  and  around  him:  if  he 
lives  there  {pointing  to  Frida)  with  her,  eight  hundred 
years  ago  ...  I  repeat:  the  giddiness  of  the  jump  will  be 


118  "HENRY  IV r  [Act  II] 

such,  that  finding  himself  suddenly  among  us  .  .  .  {The 
doctor  shakes  his  head  in  dissent).    You  don't  think  so? 

Doctor.  No,  because  life,  my  dear  baron,  can  take  up 
its  rhythms.  This — our  life — will  at  once  become  real  also 
to  him;  and  will  pull  him  up  directly,  wresting  from  him 
suddenly  the  illusion,  and  showing  him  that  the  eight  hundred 
years,  as  you  say,  are  only  twenty!  It  will  be  like  one  of 
those  tricks,  such  as  the  leap  into  space,  for  instance,  of  the 
Masonic  rite,  which  appears  to  be  heaven  knows  how  far, 
and  is  only  a  step  down  the  stairs. 

Belcredi.  Ah!  An  idea!  Yes!  Look  at  Frida  and  the 
Marchioness,  doctor!  Which  is  more  advanced  in  time? 
We  old  people,  doctor !  The  young  ones  think  they  are  more 
ahead;  but  it  isn't  true:  we  are  more  ahead,  because  time 
"belongs  to  us  more  than  to  them. 

Doctor.     If  the  past  didn't  alienate  us  .  .  . 

Belcredi.  It  doesn't  matter  at  all!  How  does  it  alien- 
ate us?  They  {pointing  to  Frida  and  Di  Nolli)  have  still 
to  do  what  we  have  accomplished,  doctor :  to  grow  old,  doing 
the  same  foolish  things,  more  or  less,  as  we  did  .  .  ,  This 
,  is  the  illusion:  that  one  comes  forward  through  a  door  to 
life.  It  isn't  so!  As  soon  as  one  is  born,  one  starts  dying; 
therefore,  he  who  started  first  is  the  most  advanced  of  all. 
The  youngest  of  us  is  father  Adam!  Look  there:  {point- 
ing to  Frida)  eight  hundred  years  younger  than  all  of  us — 
the  Countess  Matilda  of  Tuscany.  {He  makes  her  a  deep 
how), 

Di  Nolli.    I  say,  Tito,  don't  start  joking. 

Belcredi.    Oh,  you  think  I  am  joking?  ,  .  . 

Di  Nolli.     Of  course,  of  course  ...  all  the  time. 

Belcredi.  Impossible!  I've  even  dressed  up  as  a  Bene- 
dictine .  .  . 

Di  Nolli.    Yes,  but  for  a  serious  purpose. 

Belcredi.     Well,  exactly.     If  it  has  been  serious  for  the 


[Act  II]  "HENRY   IV r  119 

others  ...  for  Frida,  now,  for  instance.  ( Then  turning  to 
the  doctor)  :  I  swear,  doctor,  I  don't  yet  understand  what 
you  want  to  do. 

Doctor  {annoyed).  You'll  see!  Let  me  do  as  I  wish 
...  At  present  you  see  the  Marchioness  still  dressed  as  .  .  . 

Belcredi.    Oh,  she  also  .  .  .  has  to  masquerade? 

Doctor.  Of  course!  of  course!  In  another  dress  that's 
in  there  ready  to  be  used  when  it  comes  into  his  head  he  sees 
the  Countess  Matilda  of  Canossa  before  him. 

Frida  {while  talking  quietly  to  Di  Nolli  notices  the  doc- 
tor's mistake).     Of  Tuscany,  of  Tuscany! 

Doctor.    It's  all  the  same! 

Belcredi.    Oh,  I  see !  He'll  be  faced  by  two  of  them  .  .  . 

Doctor.     Two,  precisely!     And  then  .  .  . 

Frida  {calling  him  aside).     Come  here,  doctor!     Listen! 

Doctor.  Here  I  am!  {Goes  near  the  two  young  people 
and  pretends  to  give  some  explanations  to  them). 

Belcredi  {softly  to  Donna  Matilda).  I  say,  this  is  get- 
ting rather  strong,  you  know! 

Donna  Matilda  {looking  him  firmly  in  the  face). 
What? 

Belcredi.  Does  it  really  interest  you  as  much  as  all  that 
— to  make  you  willing  to  take  part  in  .  .  .  ?  For  a  woman 
this  is  simply  enormous!  .  .   . 

Donna  Matilda.    Yes,  for  an  ordinary  woman. 

Belcredi.  Oh,  no,  my  dear,  for  all  women, — in  a  ques^ 
tion  like  this!     It's  an  abnegation. 

Donna  Matilda.     I  owe  it  to  him. 

Belcredi.  Don't  lie!  You  know  well  enough  it's  not 
hurting  you ! 

Donna  Matilda.  Well  then,  where  does  the  abnega- 
tion come  in  ? 

Belcredi.  Just  enough  to  prevent  you  losing  caste  in 
other  people's  eyes — and  just  enough  to  offend  me!  .  .  . 


120  ''HENRY   IVr  [Act  II] 

Donna  Matilda.  But  who  is  worrying  about  you 
now? 

Di  NoLLi  {coming  forward) .  It's  all  right.  It's  all  right. 
That's  what  we'll  do!  {Turning  towards  Berthold)  :  Here 
you,  go  and  call  one  of  those  fellows! 

Berthold.    At  once!     {Exit). 

Donna  Matilda.  But  first  of  all  we've  got  to  pretend 
that  we  are  going  away. 

Di  Nolli.  Exactly!  I'll  see  to  that  .  ,  .  {to  Belcredi) 
you  don't  mind  staying  here  ? 

Belcredi  {ironically).  Oh,  no,  I  don't  mind,  I  don't 
mind!  .  .  . 

Di  Nolli.  We  must  look  out  not  to  make  him  suspicious 
again,  you  know. 

Belcredi.     Oh,  Lord!    He  doesn't  amount  to  anything! 

Doctor.  He  must  believe  absolutely  that  we've  gone 
away.  {Landolph  followed  by  Berthold  enters  from  the 
right). 

Landolph.     May  I  come  in? 

Di  Nolli.  Come  in!  Come  in!  I  say — your  name's 
Lolo,  isn't  it? 

Landolph.     Lolo,  or  Landolph,  just  as  you  like! 

Di  Nolli.  Well,  look  here:  the  doctor  and  the  Mar- 
chioness are  leaving,  at  once. 

Landolph.  Very  well.  All  we've  got  to  say  is  that  they 
have  been  able  to  obtain  the  permission  for  the  reception 
from  His  Holiness.  He's  in  there  in  his  own  apartments 
repenting  of  all  he  said — and  in  an  awful  state  to  have  the 
pardon!  Would  you  mind  coming  a  minute?  ...  If  you 
would,  just  for  a  minute  .  .  .  put  on  the  dress  again  .  .  . 

Doctor.    Why,  of  course,  with  pleasure  .  .  . 

Landolph.  Might  I  be  allowed  to  make  a  suggestion? 
Why  not  add  that  the  Marchioness  of  Tuscany  has  inter- 
ceded with  the  Pope  that  he  should  be  received  ? 


[Act  [I]  "HENRY   IV. "  121 

Donna  Matilda.    You  see,  he  has  recognized  me! 

Landolph.  Forgive  me  ...  I  don't  know  my  history 
very  well.  I  am  sure  you  gentlemen  know  It  much  better! 
But  I  thought  it  was  believed  that  Henry  IV.  had  a  secret 
passion  for  the  Marchioness  of  Tuscany. 

Donna  Matilda  {at  once).  Nothing  of  the  kind!  Noth- 
ing of  the  kind  I 

Landolph.  That's  what  I  thought!  But  he  says  he's 
loved  her  .  .  .  he's  always  saying  it  .  .  .  And  now  he  fears 
that  her  indignation  for  this  secret  love  of  his  will  work  him 
harm  with  the  Pope. 

Belcredi.  We  must  let  him  understand  that  this  aversion 
no  longer  exists. 

Landolph.     Exactly!     Of  course! 

Donna  Matilda  {to  Belcredi).  History  says — I  don't 
know  whether  you  know  it  or  not — that  the  Pope  gave  way 
to  the  supplications  of  the  Marchioness  Matilda  and  the 
Abbot  of  Cluny.  And  I  may  say,  my  dear  Belcredi,  that  I 
intended  to  take  advantage  of  this  fact — at  the  time  of  the 
pageant — to  show  him  my  feelings  were  not  so  hostile  to  him 
as  he  supposed. 

Belcredi.  You  are  most  faithful  to  history.  Marchion- 
ess ..  . 

Landolph.  Well  then,  the  Marchioness  could  spare  her- 
self a  double  disguise  and  present  herself  with  Monslgnor 
{indicating  the  doctor)  as  the  Marchioness  of  Tuscany. 

Doctor  {quickly,  energetically).  No,  no!  That  won't 
do  at  all.  It  would  ruin  everything.  The  impression  from 
the  confrontation  must  be  a  sudden  one,  give  a  shock!  No, 
no.  Marchioness,  you  will  appear  again  as  the  Duchess  Ade- 
laide, the  mother  of  the  Empress.  And  then  we'll  go  away. 
This  is  most  necessary:  that  he  should  know  we've  gone 
away.  Come  on !  Don't  let's  waste  any  more  time !  There's 
a  lot  to  prepare. 


122  ''HENRY  IV r  [^ct  II] 

{Exeunt  the  doctor.  Donna  Matilda,  and  Landolph, 
right). 

Frida.     I  am  beginning  to  feel  afraid  again. 

Di  NoLLi.     Again,  Frida? 

Frida.  It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had  seen  him  be- 
fore. 

Di  NoLLi.    There's  nothing  to  be  frightened  of,  really. 

Frida.     He  isn't  furious,  is  he? 

Di  Nolli.    Of  course  not!  he's  quite  calm. 

Belcredi  {with  ironic  sentimental  affectation).  Melan- 
choly!   Didn't  you  hear  that  he  loves  you? 

Frida.    Thanks!    That's  just  w^hy  I  am  afjraid. 

Belcredi.     He  won't  do  you  any  harm. 

Di  Nolli.    It'll  only  last  a  minute  .  .  . 

Frida.    Yes,  but  there  in  the  dark  with  him  .  -  . 

Di  Nolli.  Only  for  a  moment;  and  I  will  be  near  you, 
and  all  the  others  behind  the  door  ready  to  run  in.  As  soon 
as  you  see  your  mother,  your  part  will  be  finished  .  .  . 

Belcredi.  I'm  afraid  of  a  different  thing:  that  w^e're 
wasting  our  time  .  .  . 

Di  Nolli.  Don't  begin  again!  The  remedy  seems  a 
sound  one  to  me. 

Frida.    I  think  so  too!     I  feel  it!     I'm  all  trembling! 

Belcredi.  But,  mad  people,  my  dear  friends — though 
they  don't  know  it,  alas — have  this  felicity  w^hich  w^e  don't 
take  into  account  .  .  . 

Dl  Nolli  {interrupting,  annoyed).  What  felicity?  Non- 
sense ! 

Belcredi  {forcefully).    They  don't  reason ! 

Di  Nolli.    What's  reasoning  got  to  do  with  it,  anj^way? 

Belcredi.  Don't  you  call  it  reasoning  that  he  will  have 
to  do — according  to  us-^when  he  sees  her  {indicates  Frida) 
and  her  mother  ?    We've  reasoned  it  all  out,  surely ! 

Di  Nolli.     Nothing  of  the  kind:  no  reasoning  at  all! 


{Act  II]  "HENRY   IF."  123 

We  put  before  him  a  double  image  of  his  own  fantasy,  or 
fiction,  as  the  doctor  says. 

Belcredi  {suddenly) .  I  say,  I've  never  understood  why 
they  take  degrees  in  medicine. 

Dl  NoLLi   (amazed).     Who? 

Belcredi.    The  alienists! 

Di  NoLLi.    What  ought  they  to  take  degrees  in,  then? 

Frida.  If  they  are  alienists,  in  what  else  should  they  take 
degrees  ? 

Belcredi.  In  law,  of  course!  All  a  matter  of  talk!  The 
more  they  talk,  the  more  highly  they  are  considered.  "Anal- 
ogous elasticity,"  *'the  sensation  of  distance  in  time!"  And 
the  first  thing  they  tell  you  is  that  they  don't  work  miracles — 
when  a  miracle's  just  what  is  wanted!  But  they  know  that 
the  more  they  say  they  are  not  miracle-workers,  the  more 
folk  believe  in  their  seriousness! 

Berthold  {who  has  been  looking  through  the  keyhole  of 
the  door  on  right).  There  they  are!  There  they  are! 
They're  coming  in  here. 

Di  NoLLl.    Are  they? 

Berthold.  He  wants  to  come  with  them  .  .  .  Yes! 
.  .  .   He's  coming  too! 

Di  Nolli.  Let's  get  away,  then!  Let's  get  away,  at 
once!     {To  Berthold)  :  You  stop  here! 

Berthold.    Must  I  ? 

{Without  answering  hinij  Di  Nolli,  Frida,  and  Belcredi 
go  out  by  the  main  exit,  leaving  Berthold  surprised.  The 
door  on  the  right  opens,  and  Landolph  enters  first,  bowing. 
Then  Donna  Matilda  comes  in,  with  mantle  and  ducal  crovjn 
as  in  the  first  act;  also  the  doctor  as  the  abbot  of  Cluny. 
Henry  IV.  is  among  them  in  royal  dress.  Ordulph  and 
Harold  enter  last  of  all). 

Henry  IV.  {following  up  what  he  has  been  saying  in  the 


124  "HENRY  IVr  [Act  II] 

other  room).  And  now  I  will  ask  you  a  question:  how  can 
I  be  astute,  if  you  think  me  obstinate? 

Doctor.     No,  no,  not  obstinate! 

Henry  IV.  {smiling,  pleased).  Then  you  think  me  really 
astute  ? 

Doctor.    No,  no,  neither  obstinate,  nor  astute. 

Henry  IV.  {with  benevolent  irony).  Monsignor,  if 
obstinacy  is  not  a  vice  which  can  go  with  astuteness,  I  hoped 
that  in  denying  me  the  former,  you  would  at  least  allow  me 
a  little  of  the  latter.  I  can  assure  you  I  have  great  need  of 
it.    But  if  you  want  to  keep  it  all  for  yourself  .  .  . 

Doctor.    I  ?    I  ?    Do  I  seem  astute  to  you  ? 

Henry  IV.  No.  Monsignor!  What  do  you  say?  Not 
in  the  least!  Perhaps  in  this  case,  I  may  seem  a  little  ob- 
stinate to  you  {cutting  short  to  speak  to  Donna  Matilda). 
With  your  permission :  a  word  in  confidence  to  the  Duchess. 
{Leads  her  aside  and  asks  her  very  earnestly)  :  Is  your  daugh- 
ter really  dear  to  you  ? 

Donna  Matilda  {dismayed).    Why,  yes,  certainly  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  Do  you  wish  me  to  compensate  her  with  all 
my  love,  with  all  my  devotion,  for  the  grave  wrongs  I  have 
done  her — though  you  must  not  believe  all  the  stories  my 
enemies  tell  about  my  dissoluteness! 

Donna  Matilda.  No,  no,  I  don't  believe  them.  I  never 
have  believed  such  stories. 

Henry  IV.    Well,  then  are  you  willing? 

Donna  Matilda  {confused).    What? 

Henry  IV.  That  I  return  to  love  your  daughter  again? 
{Looks  at  her  and  adds,  in  a  mysterious  tone  of  warning). 
You  mustn't  be  a  friend  of  the  Marchioness  of  Tuscany! 

Donna  Matilda.  I  tell  you  again  that  she  has  begged 
and  tried  not  less  than  ourselves  to  obtain  your  pardon  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  {softly,  but  excitedly).     Don't  tell  me  that! 


[Act  II]  ''HENRY   IV."  125 

Don't  say  that  to  me!  Don't  you  see  the  effect  it  has  on 
me,  my  Lady? 

Donna  Matilda  {looks  at  him;  then  very  softly  as  if  in 
confidence).    You  love  her  still? 

Henry  IV.  {puzzled).  Still?  Still,  you  say?  You 
know,  then?    But  nobody  knows!    Nobody  must  know! 

Donna  Matilda.  But  perhaps  she  knows,  if  she  has 
begged  so  hard  for  you! 

Henry  IV.  {looks  at  her  and  says) :  And  you  love  your 
daughter?  {Brief  pause.  He  turns  to  the  doctor  with  laugh- 
in  ff  accents).  Ah,  Monsignor,  it's  strange  how  little  I  think 
of  my  w^ife!  It  may  be  a  sin,  but  I  swear  to  you  that  I 
hardly  feel  her  at  all  in  my  heart.  What  is  stranger  is  that 
her  own  mother  scarcely  feels  her  in  her  heart.  Confess., 
my  Lady,  that  she  amounts  to  very  little  for  you.  {Turn- 
ing to  Doctor)  :  She  talks  to  me  of  that  other  woman,  in- 
sistently, insistently,  I  don't  know  why!  .  .  . 

Landolph  {humbly).  Maybe,  Majesty,  it  is  to  disabuse 
you  of  some  ideas  you  have  had  about  the  Marchioness  of 
Tuscany.  {Then,  dismayed  at  having  allowed  himself  this 
observation,  adds)  :     I  mean  just  now,  of  course  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  You  too  maintain  that  she  has  been  friendly 
to  me? 

Landolph.    Yes,  at  the  moment,  Majesty. 

Donna  Matilda.     Exactly!     Exactly!  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  I  understand.  That  is  to  say,  you  don't  be- 
lieve I  love  her.  I  see!  I  see!  Nobody's  ever  believed  it, 
nobody's  ever  thought  it.  Better  so,  then!  But  enough, 
enough!  {Turns  to  the  doctor  with  changed  expression)  I 
Monsignor,  you  see  ?  The  reasons  the  Pope  has  had  for  re- 
voking the  excommunication  have  got  nothing  at  all  to  do 
with  the  reasons  for  which  he  excommunicated  me  originally. 
Tell  Pope  Gregory  we  shall  meet  again  at  Brixen.  And  you, 
Madame,  should  you  chance  to  meet  your  daughter  in  the 


126  "HENRY   IV."  [Act  II] 

courtyard  of  the  castle  of  your  friend  the  Marchioness,  ask 
her  to  visit  me.  We  shall  see  if  I  succeed  in  keeping  her 
close  beside  me  as  wife  and  Empress.  Many  women  have 
presented  themselves  here  already  assuring  me  that  they  were 
she.  But  they  all,  even  while  they  told  me  they  came  from 
Susa — I  don't  know  why — began  to  laugh !  And  then  in  the 
bedroom  .  .  .  Well  a  man  is  a  man,  and  a  woman  is  a 
woman.  Undressed,  we  don't  bother  much  about  who  we 
are.  And  one's  dress  is  like  a  phantom  that  hovers  always 
near  one.  Oh,  Monsignor,  phantoms  in  general  are  nothing 
more  than  trifling  disorders  of  the  spirit:  images  we  cannot 
contain  within  the  bounds  of  sleep.  They  reveal  themselves 
even  when  we  are  awake,  and  they  frighten  us.  I  ...  ah 
...  I  am  always  afraid  when,  at  night  time,  I  see  dis- 
ordered images  before  me.  Sometimes  I  am  even  afraid  of 
my  own  blood  pulsing  loudly  in  my  arteries  in  the  silence  of 
night,  like  the  sound  of  a  distant  step  in  a  lonely  corridor! 
.  .  .  But,  forgive  me!  I  have  kept  you  standing  too  long 
already.  I  thank  you,  my  Lady,  I  thank  you,  Monsignor. 
{Donna  Matilda  and  the  Doctor  go  ojf  boiving.  As  soon  as 
they  have  gone,  Henry  IV.  suddenly  changes  his  tone). 
Buffoons,  buffoons!  One  can  play  any  tune  on  them!  And 
that  other  fellow  .  .  .  Pietro  Damiani !  .  .  .  Caught  him 
out  perfectly!  He's  afraid  to  appear  before  me  again.  {Moves 
up  and  down  excitedly  while  saying  this;  then  sees  Berthold, 
and  points  him  out  to  the  other  three  valets).  Oh,  look  at 
this  imbecile  watching  me  with  his  mouth  w^ide  open! 
{Shakes  him).  Don't  you  understand?  Don't  you  see, 
idiot,  how  I  treat  them,  how  I  play  the  fool  with  them,  make 
them  appear  before  me  just  as  I  wish?  Miserable,  fright- 
ened clowns  that  they  are!  And  you  {addressing  the  valets) 
are  amazed  that  I  tear  off  their  ridiculous  masks  now,  just 
as  if  it  wasn't  I  who  had  made  them  mask  themselves  to 
satisfy  this  taste  of  mine  for  playing  the  madman ! 


[Act  II]  ''HENRY   IVr  127 

Landolph — Harold — Ordulph  {bewildered,  looking 
at  one  another).    What?    What  does  he  say?     What? 

Henry  IV.  {answers  them  imperiously) .  Enough!  enough! 
Let's  stop  it.  Vm  tired  of  it.  {Then  as  if  the  thought  left 
him  no  peace)  :  By  God!  The  impudence!  To  come  here 
along  with  her  lover!  .  .  .  And  pretending  to  do  it  out  of 
pity !  So  as  not  to  infuriate  a  poor  devil  already  out  of  the 
world,  out  of  time,  out  of  life!  If  it  hadn't  been  supposed 
to  be  done  out  of  pity,  one  can  well  imagine  that  fellow 
wouldn't  have  allowed  it.  Those  people  expect  others  to 
behave  as  they  wish  all  the  time.  And,  of  course,  there's 
nothing  arrogant  in  that!  Oh,  no!  Oh,  no!  It's  merely 
their  way  of  thinking,  of  feeling,  of  seeing.  Everybody  has 
his  own  way  of  thinking;  you  fellows,  too.  Yours  is  that 
of  a  flock  of  sheep — miserable,  feeble,  uncertain  .  .  .  But 
those  others  take  advantage  of  this  and  make  you  accept  their 
wa">Mof  thinking;  or,  at  least,  they  suppose  they  do;  Because, 
after  all,  what  do  they  succeed  in  imposing  on  you  ?  Worifs 
words  which  anyone  can  interpret  in  his  own  manner !  That's 
the  way  public  opinion  is  formed !  And  it's  a  bad  look  out 
for  a  man  who  finds  himself  labelled  one  day  with  one  of 
these  words  which  everyone  repeats;  for  example  "madman," 
or  "imbecile."  Don't  you  think  is  rather  hard  for  a  man 
to  keep  quiet,  when  he  knows  that  there  is  a  fellow  going 
about  trying  to  persuade  everybody  that  he  is  as  he  sees  him, 
trying  to  fix  him  in  other  people's  opinion  as  a  "madman" — 
according  to  him?  Now  I  am' talking  seriously!  Before  I 
hurt  my  head,  falling  from  my  horse  .  .  .  {stops  suddenly, 
noticing  the  dismay  of  the  four  young  men).  What's  the 
matter  with  you?  {Imitates  their  amazed  looks).  What? 
Am  I,  or  am  I  not,  mad?  Oh,  yes!  I'm  mad  all  right!  {He 
becomes  terrible).  Well,  then,  by  God,  down  on  your  knees, 
down  on  your  knees!  {Makes  them  go  down  on  their  knees 
one  by  one).     I  order  you  to  go  down  on  your  knees  be- 


128  ''HENRY   IVr  [Act  II] 

fore  me!  And  touch  the  ground  three  times  with  j^our 
foreheads!  Down,  down!  That's  the  way  you've  got 
to  be  before  madmen!  {Then  annoyed  with  their  facile 
humiliation):  Get  up,  sheep!  You  obeyed  me,  didn't 
you?  You  might  have  put  the  straight  jacket  on  me! 
.  .  .  Crush  a  man  with  the  weight  of  a  word — it's  nothing 
— a  fly!  all  our  life  Is  crushed  by  the  weight  of  words:  the 
weight  of  the  dead.  Look  at  me  here:  can  you  really  sup- 
pose that  Henry  IV.  is  still  alive?  All  the  same,  I  speak, 
and  order  you  live  men  about!  Do  you  think  it's  a  joke  that 
the  dead  continue  to  live? — ^Yes,  here  it's  a  joke!  But  get 
out  into  the  live  world ! — Ah,  jou  say :  what  a  beautiful 
sunrise — for  us!  All  time  is  before  us! — Dawn!  We  will  do 
what  we  llkejwi th  this  day — .  Ah,  yesT  To  Hell  with  tradi- 
tion,  the  old  conventions !  Well,  go  on !  You  will  do  noth- 
ing but  repeat  the  old,  old  w^ords,  while  you  Imagme  yoiTare~ 
tivtrigl  J^Qoes'Up~t(r-B-erth<>l^^trhcrfiaT'now  become  quite 
stupMy.  You  don't  understand  a  word  of  this,  do  yon? 
What's  your  name  ? 

Berthold.     I?  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Berthold  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.    Poor  Berthold!    What's  your  name  here? 

Berthold.    I  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  my  name  in  Fino. 

Henry  IV.  {feeling  the  warning  and  critical  glances  of 
the  others,  turns  to  them  to  reduce  them  to  silence).     Fino? 

Berthold.    Fino  Pagliuca,  sire. 

Henry  IV.  {turning  to  Landolph) .  I've  heard  you  call 
each  other  by  your  nick-names  often  enough !  Your  name  is 
Lolo,  isn't  it  ? 

Landolph.  Yes,  sire  .  .  .  {then  with  a  sense  of  im- 
mense joy).  Oh,  Lord!  Oh  Lord!  Then  he  is  not 
mad  .  .  . 

Hetsiry  YV.  {brusquely).    What? 

Landolph   {hesitating) .     No  ...  I  said  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.    Not  mad,  eh  ?    We're  having  a  joke  on  thos© 


[Act  II]  "HENRY   IVr  129 

that  think  I  am  mad!  {To  Harold) — I  say,  boy,  your 
name's  Franco  ...    {to  Ordulph)  And  yours  .  .  . 

Ordulph.     Momo. 

Henry  IV.     Momo,  Momo  ...  A  nice  name  that! 

Landolph.    So  he  isn't  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  What  are  you  talking  about?  Of  course 
not!  Let's  have  a  jolly,  good  laugh!  .  .  .  {Laughs)  :  Ah! 
.  .  .  Ah!  .  .  .  Ah!  .  .  . 

Landolph — Harold — Ordulph  {looking  at  each  other 
half  happy  and  half  dismayed) .  Then  he's  cured !  .  .  .  he's 
all  right!   .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  Silence!  Silence!  ...  {To  Berthold)  : 
Why  don't  you  laugh?  Are  you  offended?  I  didn't  mean 
it  especially  for  you.  It's  convenient  for  everybody  to  insist 
that  certain  people  are  mad,  so  they  can  be  shut  up.  Do 
you  know  why?  Because  it's  impossible  to  hear  them  speak! 
What  shall  I  say  of  these  people  who've  just  gone  away? 
That  one  is  a  whore,  another  a  libertine,  another  a  swindler 
.  .  .  don't  you  think  so?  You  can't  believe  a  word  he  says 
.  .  .  don't  you  think  so? — By  the  way,  they  all  listen  to  me 
terrified.  And  why  are  they  terrified,  if  what  I  say  isn't 
true?  Of  course,  you  can't  believe  what  madmen  say — yet, 
at  the  same  time,  they  stand  there  with  their  eyes  wide  open 
with  terror! — Why?  Tell  me,  tell  me,  why? — You  see  I'm 
quite  calm  now! 

Berthold.     But,  perhaps,  they  think  that  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  No,  no,  my  dear  fellow !  Look  me  well  in 
the  eyes!  ...  I  don't  say  that  it's  true — nothing  is  true, 
Berthold!    But  .  .  .  look  me  in  the  eyes! 

Berthold.    Well  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  You  see?  You  see?  .  .  .  You  have  terror 
in  your  own  eyes  now  because  I  seem  mad  to  you !  There's 
the  oroof  of  it  ilaughs)  ! 


130  "HENRY   IV:'  [Act  II] 

Landolph  {coming  forward  in  the  name  of  the  others, 
exasperated) .    What  proof  ? 

Henry  IV.  Your  being  so  dismayed  because  now  I  seem 
again  mad  to  you.  You  have  thought  me  mad  up  to  now, 
haven't  you  ?  You  feel  that  this  dismay  of  yours  can  become 
terror  too — something  to  dash  away  the  ground  from  under 
your  feet  and  deprive  you  of  the  air  you  breathe!  Do  you 
know  what  it  means  to  find  yourselves  face  to  face  with  a 
madman — with  one  who  shakes  the  foundations  of  all  you 
have  built  up  in  yourselves,  your  logic,  the  logic  of  all  your 
constructions?  Madmen,  lucky  folk!  construct  without  logic, 
or  rather  with  a  logic  that  flies  like  a  feather.  Voluble! 
Voluble!  Today  like  this  and  tomorrow  —  who  knows? 
You  say:  "This  cannot  be";  but  for  them  everything  can 
be.  You  say:  ''This  isn't  true!"  And  why?  Because  it 
doesn't  seem  true  to  you,  or  you,  or  you  .  .  .  {indicates  the 
three  of  them  in  succession)  .  .  .  and  to  a  hundred  thou- 
sand others !  One  must  see  ^vhat  seems  true  to  these  hundred 
thousand  others  who  are  not  supposed  to  be  mad!  What  a 
magnificent  spectacle  they  afford,  when  they  reason!  What 
flowers  of  logic  they  scatter!  I  know  that  when  I  was  a 
child,  I  thought  the  moon  in  the  pond  was  real.  How  many 
things  I  thought  real!  I  believed  everything  I  was  told — 
and  I  was  happy!  Because  it's  a  terrible  thing  if  you  don't 
hold  on  to  that  which  seems  true  to  you  today — to  that 
which  will  seem  true  to  you  tomorrow,  even  if  it  is  the 
opposite  of  that  which  seemed  true  to  you  yesterday.  I  would 
never  wish  you  to  think,  as  I  have  done,  on  this  horrible  thing 
which  really  drives  one  mad :  that  if  you  were  beside  another 
and  looking  into  his  eyes — as  I  one  day  looked  into  some- 
body's eyes — you  might  as  well  be  a  beggar  before  a  door 
never  to  be  opened  to  you;  for  he  who  does  enter  there  will 
never  be  you,  but  someone  unknown  to  you  with  his  own 
different  and  impenetrable  woM  .  .  .   {Long  pause.   Dark' 


[Act  II]  ''HENRY   IVr  131 

ness  gathers  in  the  room,  increasing  the  sense  of  strangeness 
and  consternation  in  which  the  four  young  men  are  involved. 
Henry  IV  remains  aloof,  pondering  on  the  misery  which  is 
not  only  his,  but  everybody's.  Then  he  pulls  himself  up,  and 
says  in  an  ordinary  tone)  :  It's  getting  dark  here  .  .  . 

Ordulph.     Shall  I  go  for  a  lamp? 

Henry  IV.  {Ironically) .  The  lamp,  yes  the  lamp!  .  .  „ 
Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  that  as  soon  as  I  turn  my  back 
with  my  oil  lamp  to  go  to  bed,  you  turn  on  the  electric  light 
for  yourselves,  here,  and  even  there,  in  the  throne  room? 
I  pretend  not  to  see  it! 

Ordulph.     Well,  then,  shall  I  turn  it  on  now? 

Henry  IV.     No,  it  would  blind  me!    I  want  my  lamp! 

Ordulph.  It's  ready  here  behind  the  door.  {Goes  to 
the  main  exit,  opens  the  door,  goes  out  for  a  moment,  and 
returns  with  an  ancient  lamp  which  is  held  by  a  ring  at  the 
top). 

Henry  IV.  Ah,  a  little  light!  Sit  there  around  the 
table,  no,  not  like  that;  in  an  elegant,  easy,  manner!  .  .  . 
{To  Harold)  :  Yes,  you,  like  that  {poses  him)  !  {Then  to 
Berthold)  :  You,  so!  .  .  ,  and  I,  here  {sits  opposite  them)  ! 
We  could  do  with  a  little  decorative  moonlight.  It's  very- 
useful  for  us,  the  moonlight.  I  feel  a  real  necessity  for  it, 
and  pass  a  lot  of  time  looking  up  at  the  moon  from  my 
window.  Who  would  think,  to  look  at  her  that  she  knows 
that  eight  hundred  years  have  passed,  and  that  I,  seated  at 
the  window,  cannot  really  be  Henry  IV  gazing  at  the 
moon  like  any  poor  devil?  But,  look,  look!  See  what  a 
magnificent  night  scene  we  have  here:  the  emperor  sur- 
rounded by  his  faithful  counsellors!  .  .  .  How  do  you 
like  it? 

Landolph  {softly  to  Harold,  so  as  not  to  break  the  enr 
chantment).   And  to  think  it  wasn't  true!  .  .  . 


132  "HENRY   IF/'  [Act  II] 

Henry  IV.     True?   What  wasn't  true? 

Landolph  (timidly  as  if  to  excuse  himself).  No  .  .  . 
I  mean  ...  I  was  saying  this  morning  to  him  (indicates 
Bert  hold) — ^he  has  just  entered  on  service  here — I  was, 
saying:  what  a  pity  that  dressed  like  this  and  with  so  many 
beautiful  costumes  in  the  wardrobe  .  .  .  and  with  a  room 
like  that   (indicates  the  throne  room)   .  .  . 

Henry  IV.     Well?   what's  the  pity? 

Landolph.     Well  .  .  .  that  we  didn't  know  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.     That  it  was  all  done  in  jest,  this  comedy? 

Landolph.    Because  we  thought  that  .  .  . 

Harold  (coming  to  his  assistance) .  Yes  .  .  .  that  it  was 
done  seriously ! 

Henry  IV.  What  do  you  say?  Doesn't  it  seem  serious 
to  you? 

Landolph.     But  if  you  say  that  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  I  say  that — you  are  fools!  You  ought  to  have 
known  how  to  create  a  fantasy  for  yourselves,  not  to  act  it 
for  me,  or  anyone  coming  to  see  me;  but  naturally,  simply, 
day  by  day,  before  nobody,  feeling  yourselves  alive  in  the 
history  of  the  eleventh  century,  here  at  the  court  of  your 
emperor,  Henry  IV!  You  Ordulph  (taking  him  by  the 
arm) J  alive  in  the  castle  of  Goslar,  waking  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, getting  out  of  bed,  and  entering  straightway  into  the 
dream,  clothing  yourself  in  the  dream  that  would  be  no 
more  a  dream,  because  you  would  have  lived  it,  felt  it  all 
alive  in  you.  You  would  have  drunk  it  in  with  the  air  you 
breathed;  yet  knowing  all  the  time  that  it  was  a  dream,  so 
you  could  better  enjoy  the  privilege  afforded  you  of  having 
to  do  nothing  else  but  live  this  dream,  this  far  off  and  yet 
actual  dream!  And  to  think  that  at  a  distance  of  eight 
centuries  from  this  remote  age  of  ours,  so  coloured  and  so 
sepulchral,  the  men  of  the  twentieth  century  are  torturing 
themselves  in  ceaseless  anxiety  to  know  how  their  fates  and 


[Act  II]  ''HENRY   IV r  133 

fortunes  will  work  out !   Whereas  you  are  already  in  history 
with  me  .  .  . 

Landolph.     Yes,  yes,  very  good! 

Henry  IV.  .  .  .  Everything  determined,  everything 
settled !  ^  ■"      '  ^ 

Ordulph.     Yes,  yes! 

Henry  IV.  And  sad  as  is  my  lot,  hideous  as  some  of  the 
events  are,  bitter  the  struggles  and  troublous  the  time — still 
all  history!  An_history  that  cannot  change,  understand? 
^A1j_fYPrl  fjTrpver!  And  ynii  rnnld  have  admired  at  your 
ease  how  every'^efFEtt  followed  obediently  its  cause  with 
perfect  logic,  how  every  event  took  place  precisely  and 
coherently  in  each  minute  particular!  The  pleasure,  the 
pleasure  of  history,  in  fact,  which  is  so  great,  was  yours. 

Landolph.     tJeautitul,  beautiful !  ~        ~        — 

:lHenrylJ5^.  Beautiful,  but  it's  finished!  Now  that  you 
know,  I  could  not  do  it  any  more!  {Takes  his  lamp  to  go 
to  bed).  Neither  could  you,  if  up  to  now  you  haven't  under- 
stood the  reason  of  it!  I  am  sick  of  it  now.  {Almost  to  him- 
self with  violent  contained  rage)  :  B.^__God,  I'll  make  hej:^ 
sorry  she  came  here!  Dressed  herself  up  as  a  mother-in-law 
forTne~7~r'ri~^Arid~1re  as  an  abbot  .  .  .  !  And  they  bring  a 
doctor  with  them  to  study  me  ...  !  Who  knows  if  they 
don't  hope  to  cure  me?  .  .  .  Clowns  .  .  .  !  I'd  like  to 
smack  one  of  them  at  least  in  the  face:  yes,  that  one — a 
famous  swordsman,  they  say!  .  .  .  He'll  kill  me  .  .  .  Well, 
we'll  see,  we'll  see!  .  .  .  {A  knock  at  the  door).  Who 
is  it? 

The  Voice  of  John.    Deo  Gratias! 

Harold  {very  pleased  at  the  chance  for  another  joke). 
Oh,  it's  John,  it's  old  John,  who  comes  every  night  to  play 
the  monk. 

Ordulph  {rubbing  his  hands).  Yes,  yes!  Let's  make 
him  do  it! 


134  "HENRY   IF/'  [Act  II] 


r^, 


^ 


ENRY  IV.  {at  once,  severely).  Fool,  why?  Just  to  play 
V  a  joke  on  a  poor  old  man  who  does  it  for  love  of  me? 

Landolph  {to  Ordulph).    It  has  to  be  as  if  it  were  true. 

Henry  IV.  Exactly,  as  if  true!  Because,  only  so,  truth 
is  not  a  jest  {opens  the  door  and  admits  John  dressed  as  a 
humble  friar  with  a  roll  of  parchment  under  his  arm).  Come 
in,  come  in,  father !  ( Then  assuming  a  tone  of  tragic  gravity 
and  deep  resentment)  :  All  the  documents  of  my  life  and 
reign  favorable  to  me  were  destroyed  deliberately  by  my 
enemies.  One  only  has  escaped  destruction,  this,  my  life, 
written  by  a  humble  monk  who  is  devoted  to  me.  And  you 
would  laugh  at  him!  {Turns  affectionately  to  John,  and 
invites  him  to  sit  down  at  the  table).  Sit  down,  father,  sit 
dow^n!  Have  tlie  lamp  near  you  {puts  the  lamp  near  him)  I 
Write!    Write! 

John  {opens  the  parchment  and  prepares  to  write  from 
dictation).    I  am  ready,  your  Majesty! 

Henry  IV.  {dictating).  "The  decree  of  peace  proclaimed 
at  Mayence  helped  the  poor  and  humble,  while  it  damaged  the 
weak-  and  the  powerful  {curtain  begins  to  fall)  :  It  brought 
wealth  to  the  former,  hunger  and  misery  to  the  latter  .  .  »" 

Curtain, 


ACT  III 

The  throne  room  so  dark  that  the  wall  at  the  bottom  is 
hardly  seen.  The  canvasses  of  the  two  portraits  have  been 
taken  away;  andj  within  their  frames,  Frida,  dressed  as  the 
"Marchioness  of  Tuscany''  and  Charles  Di  Nolli,  as  "Henry 
IF./'  have  taken  the  exact  positions  of  the  portraits. 

For  a  moment,  after  the  raising  of  curtain,  the  stage  is 
empty.  Then  the  door  on  the  left  opens;  and  Henry  IV., 
holding  the  lamp  by  the  ring  on  top  of  it,  enters.  He  looks 
back  to  speak  to  th^  four  young  men  who,  with  John,  are 
presumedly  in  the  adjoining  hall,  as  at  the  end  of  the  second 
act. 

Henry  IV.  No:  stay  where  you  are,  stay  where  you  arc. 
I  shall  manage  all  right  by  myself.  Good  night!  {Closes  the 
door  and  walks,  very  sad  and  tired,  across  the  hall  towards 
the  second  door  on  the  right,  which  leads  into  his  apart- 
ments). 

Frida  {as  soon  as  she  sees  that  he  has  just  passed  the 
throne,  whispers  from  the  niche  like  one  who  is  on  the  point 
of  fainting  away  with  fright).    Henry  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  {stopping  at  the  voice,  as  if  someone  had 
stabbed  him  traitorously  in  the  back,  turns  a  terror-stricken 
face  towards  the  wall  at  the  bottom  of  the  room;  raising  an 
arm  instinctively,  as  if  to  defend  himself  and  ward  off  a 
blow).  V^ho  is  calling  me?  (//  is  not  a  question,  but  an 
exclamation  vibrating  with  terror,  which  does  not  expect  a 
reply  from  the  darkness  and  the  terrible  silence  of  the  hall, 
which  suddenly  fills  him  with  the  suspicion  that  he  is  really 
mad). 

Frida    {at    his   shudder    of   terror,    is   herself    not   less 

135 


136  ''HENRY   IVr  [Act  III] 

frightened  at  the  part  she  is  playing,  and  repeats  a  little  more 
loudly).  Henry!  .  .  .  {But,  although  she  wishes  to  act  the 
part  as  they  have  given  it  to  her,  she  stretches  her  head  a  little 
out  of  the  frame  towards  the  other  frame). 

Henry  IV.  {Gives  a  dreadful  cry ;  lets  the  lamp  fall  from 
his  hands  to  cover  his  head  with  his  arms,  and  makes  a  move- 
ment as  if  to  run  away). 

Frida  {jumping  from  the  frame  on  to  the  stand  and  shout- 
ing like  a  mad  woman).  Henry!  .  .  .  Henry!  .  .  .  I'm 
afraid!  .  .  .    I'm  terrified!  .  .  . 

{And  while  Di  Nolli  jumps  in  turn  on  to  the  stand  and 
thence  to  the  floor  and  runs  to  Frida  who,  on  the  verge  of 
fainting,  continues  to  cry  out,  the  Doctor,  Donna  Matilda^ 
also  dressed  as  "Matilda  of  Tuscany,''  Tito  Belcredi,  Lan- 
dolph,  Berthold  and  John  enter  the  hall  from  the  doors  on 
the  right  and  on  the  left.  One  of  them  turns  on  the  light:  a 
strange  light  coming  from  lamps  hidden  in  the  ceiling  so  that 
only  the  upper  part  of  the  stdge  is  well  lighted.  The  others 
without  taking  notice  of  Henry  IF,  who  looks  on  astonished 
by  the  unexpected  inrush,  after  the  moment  of  terror  which 
still  causes  him  to  tremble,  run  anxiously  to  support  and  com- 
fort the  still  shaking  Frida,  who  is  moaning  in  the  arms  of 
her  fiance.  All  are  speaking  at  the  same  time.) 

Di  NoLLi.  No,  no,  Frida  .  .  .  Here  I  am  .  .  .  I  am 
beside  you ! 

Doctor  {coming  with  the  others).  Enough!  Enough! 
There's  nothing  more  to  be  done!  .  .  . 

Donna  Matilda.  He  is  cured,  Frida.  Look!  He  is 
cured!    Don't  you  see? 

Di  Nolli  {astonished).    Cured? 

Belcredi.    It  was  only  for  fun !  Be  calm ! 

Frida.   No!   I  am  afraid!   I  am  afraid! 

Donna  Matilda.  Afraid  of  what?  Look  at  him!  He 
was  nev^r  mad  at  all!  .  .  . 


[Act  III]  "HENRY   IVr  137 

Di  NoLLi.  That  isn't  true!  What  are  you  saying? 
Cured  ? 

Doctor.     It  appears  so.   I  should  say  so  .  .  . 

Belcredi.  Yes,  yes!  They  have  told  us  so  {pointing  to 
the  four  young  men). 

Donna  Matilda.  Yes,  for  a  long  time !  He  has  confided 
in  them,  told  them  the  truth! 

Dl  NoLLi  {now  more  indignant  than  astonished).  But 
what  does  it  mean?   If,  up  to  a  short  time  ago  .  .  .  ? 

Belcredi.  Hum !  He  was  acting,  to  take  you  in  and  also 
us,  who  in  good  faith  .  .  . 

Di  NoLLi.  Is  it  possible  ?  To  deceive  his  sister,  also,  right 
up  to  the  time  of  her  death  ? 

Henry  IV.  {Remains  apart,  peering  at  one  and  now  at 
the  other  under  the  accusation  and  the  mockery  of  what  all 
believe  to  be  a  cruel  joke  of  his,  which  is  now  revealed.  He 
has  shown  by  the  flashing  of  his  eyes  that  he  is  meditating  a 
revenge,  which  his  violent  contempt  prevents  him  from  defin- 
ing clearly,  as  yet.  Stung  to  the  quick  and  with  a  clear  idea 
of  accepting  the  fiction  they  have  insidiously  worked  up  as 
true,  he  bursts  forth  at  this  point)  :  Go  on,  I  say !    Go  on ! 

Dl  NoLLi  {astonished  at  the  cry).  Go  on!  What  do  you 
mean? 

Henry  IV.   It  isn't  your  sister  only  that  is  dead! 

Di  Nolli.  My  sister  ?  Yours,  I  say,  whom  you  compelled 
up  to  the  last  moment,  to  present  herself  here  as  your  mother 
Agnes ! 

Henry  IV.  And  was  she  not  your  mother? 

Di  Nolli.    My  mother?    Certainly  my  mother! 

Henry  IV.  But  your  mother  is  dead  for  me,  old  and  far 
awayl  You  have  just  got  down  now  from  there  {pointing 
to  the  frame  from  which  he  jumped  down) .  And  how  do  you 
know  whether  I  have  not  wept  her  long  in  secret,  dressed 
even  as  I  am? 


138  ''HENRY   IVr  [Act  III] 

Donna  Matilda  {dismayed,  looking  at  the  others). 
What  does  he  say?  {Much  impressed,  observing  him). 
Quietly !  quietly,  for  Heaven's  sake ! 

Henry  IV.  What  do  I  say?  I  ask  all  of  you  if  Agnes 
was  not  the  mother  of  Henry  IV?  {Turns  to  Frida  as  if  she 
were  really  the  Marchioness  of  Tuscany)  :  You,  Marchion- 
ess, it  seems  to  me,  ought  to  know. 

Frida  {still  frightened,  draws  closer  to  Di  Nolli).  No, 
no,  I  don't  know.    Not  I ! 

Doctor.  It's  the  madness  returning.  .  .  .  Quiet  now, 
everybody ! 

Belcredi  {indignant).  Madness  indeed,  doctor!  He's 
acting  again!  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  {suddenly).  I?  You  have  emptied  those  two 
frames  ovei  there,  and  he  stands  before  my  eyes  as  Henry 
IV.  .  .  . 

Belcredi.    We've  had  enough  of  this  joke  now. 

Henry  IV.    Who  said  joke? 

Doctor  {loudly  to  Belcredi).  Don't  excite  him,  for  the 
love  of  God! 

Belcredi  {without  lending  an  ear  to  him,  but  speaking 
louder).  But  they  have  said  so  {pointing  again  to  the  four 
young  men),  they,  they! 

Henry  IV.  {turning  round  and  looking  at  them).  You? 
Did  you  say  it  was  all  a  joke? 

Landolph  {timid  and  embarrassed) .  No  .  .  .  really  we 
said  that  you  were  cured. 

Belcredi.  Look  here!  Enough  of  this!  {To  Donna 
Matilda)  :  Doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that  the  sight  of  him 
{pointing  to  Di  Nolli)  y  Marchioness  and  that  of  your 
daughter  dressed  so,  is  becoming  an  intolerable  puerility? 

Donna  Matilda.  Oh,  be  quiet!  What  does  the  dress 
matter,  if  he  is  cured  ? 

Henry  IV.   Cured,  yes!   I  am  cured!    {To  Belcredi)  ah. 


i 


[Act  III]  "HENRY   IVr  139 

but  not  to  let  it  end  this  way  all  at  once,  as  you  suppose! 
{Attacks  him).   Do  you  know  that  for  twenty  years  nobody* 
has  ever  dared  to  appear  before  me  here  like  you  and  that  I 
gentleman   (pointing  to  the  doctor)?  * 

Belcredi.  Of  course  I  know  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  too 
appeared  before  you  this  morning  dressed  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  As  a  monk,  yes! 

Belcredi.  And  you  took  me  for  Peter  Damiani !  And  I 
didn't  even  laugh,  believing,  in  fact,  that  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  That  I  was  mad!  Does  it  make  5^ou  laugh 
seeing  her  like  that,  now  that  I  am  cured?  And  yet  you 
might  have  remembered  that  in  my  eyes  her  appearance 
now  .  .  .  {interrupts  himself  with  a  gesture  of  contempt) 
Ah!  {Suddenly  turns  to  the  doctor)  :  You  are  a  doctor, 
aren't  you? 

Doctor.     Yes. 

Henry  IV.  And  you  also  took  part  in  dressing  her  up  as 
the  Marchioness  of  Tuscany?  To  prepare  a  counter-joke 
for  me  here,  eh? 

Donna  Matilda  {impetuously) .  No,  no!  What  do  you 
say  ?   It  was  done  for  you !   I  did  it  for  your  sake. 

Doctor  {quickly).  To  attempt,  to  try,  not  knowing  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  {cutting  him  short).  I  understand.  I  say 
counter-joke,  in  his  case  {indicates  Belcredi),  because  he 
believes  that  I  have  been  carrying  on  a  jest  .  .  . 

Belcredi.  But  excuse  me,  what  do  you  mean?  You  say 
yourself  you  are  cured. 

Henry  IV.  Let  me  speak!  {To  the  doctor):  Do  you 
know,  doctor,  that  for  a  moment  you  ran  the  risk  of  making 
me  mad  again?  By  God,  to  make  the  portraits  speak;  to 
make  them  jump  alive  out  of  their  frames  .  .  . 

Doctor.  But  you  saw  that  all  of  us  ran  in  at  once,  as  soon 
as  they  told  us  .  .  . 

Henry    IV.     Certainly!     {Contemplates   Frida   and  Di 


140  "HENRY   IF/'  [Act  III] 

Nollij  and  then  looks  at  the  Marchioness,  and  finally  at  his 
own  costume) .  The  combination  is  very  beautiful  .  .  .  Two 
couples  .  .  .  Very  good,  very  good,  doctor !  For  a  madman, 
not  bad!  .  .  .  {With  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand  to  Belcredi)  : 
It  seems  to  him  now  to  be  a  carnival  out  of  season,  eh? 
{Turns  to  look  at  him).  We'll  get  rid  now  of  this  mas- 
querade costume  of  mine,  so  that  I  may  come  away  with  you. 
What  do  you  say? 

Belcredi.   With  me?  With  us? 

Henry  IV.  Where  shall  we  go?  To  the  Club?  In  dress 
coats  and  with  white  ties?  Or  shall  both  of  us  go  to  the 
Marchioness'  house? 

Belcredi.  Wherever  you  like!  Do  you  want  to  remain 
here  still,  to  continue — alone — what  was  nothing  but  the  un- 
fortunate joke  of  a  day  of  carnival?  It  is  really  incredible, 
incredible  how  you  have  been  able  to  do  all  this,  freed  from 
the  disaster  that  befell  you! 

Henry  IV.  Yes,  you  see  how  it  was!  The  fact  is  that 
falling  from  my  horse  and  striking  my  head  as  I  did,  I  was 
really  mad  for  I  know  not  how  long  .  .  . 

Doctor.    Ah!   Did  it  last  long? 

Henry  IV.  {very  quickly  to  the  doctor).  Yes,  doctor,  a 
long  time!  I  think  it  must  have  been  about  twelve  years. 
{Then  suddenly  turning  to  speak  to  Belcredi)  :  Thus  I  saw 
nothing,  my  dear  fellow,  of  all  that,  after  that  day  of  carni- 
val, happened  for  you  but  not  for  me:  how  things  changed, 
how  my  friends  deceived  me,  how  my  place  was  taken  by 
another,  and  all  the  rest  of  it!  And  suppose  my  place  had 
been  taken  in  the  heart  of  the  woman  I  loved?  .  .  .  And 
how  should  I  know  who  was  dead  or  who  had  disappeared  ? 
.  .  .  All  this,  you  know,  wasn't  exactly  a  jest  for  me,  as  it 
seems  to  you  .  .  . 

Belcredi.  No,  no!  I  don't  mean  that  if  you  please.  I 
mean  after  .  .  , 


[Act  III]  ''HENRY  IF/'  141 

Henry  IV.  Ah,  yes?  After?  One  day  (stops  and  ad- 
dresses the  doctor) — A  most  interesting  case,  doctor!  Study 
me  well!  Study  me  carefully  {tretnbles  while  speaking)! 
All  by  itself,  who  knows  how,  one  day  the  trouble  here 
{touches  his  forehead)  mended.  Little  by  little,  I  open  my 
eyes,  and  at  first  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  asleep  or  awake. 
Then  I  know  I  am  awake.  I  touch  this  thing  and  that ;  1  see 
clearly  again  .  .  .  Ah! — then,  as  he  says  {alludes  to  Bel- 
credi)  away,  away  with  this  masquerade,  this  incubus!  Let's 
open  the  windows,  breathe  life  once  again !  Away !  Away ! 
Let's  run  out!  {Suddenly  pulling  himself  up).  But  where? 
And  to  do  what?  To  show  myself  to  all,  secretly,  as  Henry 
IV.,  not  like  this,  but  arm  in  arm  with  you,  among  my  dear 
friends  ? 

Belcredi.     What  are  you  saying? 

Donna  Matilda.  Who  could  think  it?  It's  not  to  be 
imagined.    It  was  an  accident. 

Henry  IV.  They  all  said  I  was  mad  before.  {To  Bel- 
credi) :  And  you  know  it!  You  were  more  ferocious  than 
any  one  against  those  who  tried  to  defend  me. 

Belcredi.   Oh,  that  was  only  a  joke! 

Henry  IV.  Look  at  my  hair!  {Shows  him  the  hair  on 
the  nape  of  his  neck). 

Belcredi.    But  mine  is  grey  too! 

Henry  IV.  Yes,  with  this  difference:  that  mine  went 
grey  here,  as  Henry  IV.,  do  you  understand?  And  I  never 
knew  it!  I  perceived  it  all  of  a  sudden,  one  day,  when  I 
opened  my  eyes;  and  I  was  terrified  because  I  understood  at 
once  that  not  only  had  my  hair  gone  grey,  but  that  I  was  all 
grey,  inside;  that  everything  had  fallen  to  pieces,  that  every- 
thing was  finished;  and  I  was  going  to  arrive,  hungry  as  a 
wolf,  at  a  banquet  which  had  already  been  cleared  away  .  .  . 

Belcredi.    Yes,  but,  what  about  the  others?  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  {quickly).   Ah,  yes,  I  know!   They  couldn't 


142  "HENRY  IVr  [Act  III] 

wait  until  I  was  cured,  not  even  those,  who,  behind  my  back, 
pricked  my  saddled  horse  till  it  bled.  .  .  . 

Di  NoLLi  {agitated).   What,  what? 

Henry  IV.    Yes,  treacherously,  to  make  it  rear  and  cause 
me  to  fall. 

Donna  Matilda  {quickly,  in  horror).    This  is  the  first 
time  I  knew  that. 

Henry  IV.    That  was  also  a  joke,  probably! 

Donna  Matilda.    But  who  did  it  ?  Who  was  behind  us, 
then? 

Henry  IV.     It  doesn't  matter  who  it  was.     All  those 
that  went  on  feasting  and  were  ready  to  leave  me  their  scrap- 
ings, Marchioness,  of  miserable  pity,  or  some  dirty  remnant 
of  remorse  in  the  filthy  plate!    Thanks!     {Turning  quickly 
to  the  doctor)  :    Now  doctor,  the  case  must  be   absolutel;/ 
new  in  the  history  of  madness;  I  preferred  to  remain  mqd — . 
since  I  found  everything  ready  and  at  my  disposal  for  this 
new  exquisite   fantasy.      I   would   live   it — this  madness  of 
mine — with  the  most  lucid  consciousness;  and  thus  revenge 
myself  on  the  brutality  of  a  stone  which  had  dinted  my  head. 
The  solitude — this  solitude — squalid   and   empty  as  it   ap- 
•  peared  to  me  when  I  opened  my  eyes  again — I  determined  to 
deck  it  out  with  all  the  colours  and  splendors  of  that  far  off 
day  of  carnival,  when  you    {looks  at  Donna  Matilda  and 
points  Frida  out  to  her)  when  you.  Marchioness,  triumphed. 
I  So  I  v/ould  oblige  all  those  who  were  around  me  to  follovv^, 
-[  by  God,  at  my  orders  that  famous  pageant  which  had  been — 
j  for  you  and  not  for  me — the  jest  of  a  day.    I  would  make  it 
I  become — for  ever — no  more  a  joke  but  a  reality,  the  reality 
of  a  real  madness:    here,   all   in  masquerade,   with   throne 
'  room,  and  these  my  four  secret  counsellors:    secret  and,  of 
course,    traitors.       {He    turns    quickly    towards    them).      I 
should  like  to  know  what  you  have  gained  by  revealing  the 
fact  that  I  was  cured!     If  I  am  cured,  there's  no  longer  any 


[Act  III]  ''HENRY  IVr  143 

need  of  you,  and  you  will  be  discharged !  To  give  anyone 
^^one^s  confidence  .  .  .  that  is  really  the  act  of  a  madmah-  But 
now  ^-^ccnse  you'iiT~fiTy  turn  {turning  to  the  others)!  Do 
you  know?  They  thought  {alludes  to  the  valets)  they  could 
make  fun  of  me  too  with  you  {bursts  out  laughing.  The 
others  laugh,  but  shamefacedly,  except  Donna  Matilda). 

Belcredi  {to  Di  Nolli).  Well,  imagine  that  .  .  .  That's 
not  bad  .  .  . 

Di  Nolli  {to  the  four  young  men).    You? 

Henry  IV.  We  must  pardon  them.  This  dress  {pluck- 
ing his  dress)  which  is  for  me  the  evident,  involuntary  cari- 
cature of  that  other  continuous,  everlasting  masquerade,  of 
which  we  arc  the  involuntary  puppets  {indicates  Belcredi), 
when,  without  knowing  it,  we  mask  ourselves  with  that 
which  we  appear  to  be  .  .  .  ah,  that  dress  of  theirs.  _this 
masquerrirle  of  theirs,  of  course,  we  must  forgive  it  them, 
since  they  do  not  ye^^eeit  is  identical  with  themselves  TT  . 
( Turning  again  to  Belcredi)  :"Tou  know,  it  is  quite^easy  to 
get  accustomed  to  it.  One  walks  about  as  a  tragic  character, 
just  as  if  it  were  nothing  .  .  .  {Imitates  the  tragic  manner) 
in  a  room  like  this  .  .  .  Look  here,  doctor !  I  remember  a 
priest,  certainly  Irish,  a  nice-looking  priest,  who  was  sleeping 
in  the  sun  one  November  day,  with  his  arm  on  the  corner  of 
the  bench  of  a  public  garden.  He  was  lost  in  the  golden  de- 
light of  the  mild  sunny  air  which  must  have  seemed  for  him 
almost  summery.  One  may  be  sure  that  in  that  moment  he 
did  not  know  any  more  that  he  was  a  priest,  or  even  where 
he  was.  He  was  dreaming  ...  A  little  boy  passed  with  a 
flower  in  his  hand.  He  touched  the  priest  with  it  here  on 
the  neck.  I  saw  him  open  his  laughing  eyes,  while  all  his 
mouth  smiled  with  the  beauty  of  his  dream.  He  was  forget- 
1  '1  of  ever>'thing  .  .  .  But  all  at  once,  he  pulled  himself 
together,  and  stretched  out  his  priest's  cassock;  and  there 
came  back  to  his  eyes  the  same  seriousness  which  you  have 


144  "HENRY  IVr  [Act  III] 

seen  in  mine;  because  the  Irish  priests  defend  the  seriousness 
of  their  Catholic  faith  with  the  same  zeal  with  which  I 
defend  the  secret  rights  of  hereditary  monarchy !  I  am  cured, 
gentlemen:  because  I  can  act  the  mad  man  to  perfection, 
here;  and  I  do  it  very  quietly,  I'm  only  sorry  for  you  that 
have  to  live  your  madness  so  agitatedly,  without  knowing  it 
or  seeing  it. 

Belcredi.  It  comes  to  this,  then,  that  it  is  we  who  are 
mad.     That's  what  it  is! 

Henry  IV.  {containing  his  irritation).  But  if  you 
weren't  mad,  both  you  and  she  {indicating  the  Marchioness) 
would  you  have  come  here  to  see  me? 

Belcredi.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  came  here  believing  that 
you  were  the  madman. 

Henry  IV.  {suddenly  indicating  the  Marchioness).  And 
she? 

Belcredi.  Ah,  as  for  her  ...  I  can't  say.  I  see  she  is 
all  fascinated  by  your  words,  by  this  conscious  madness  of 
yours.  {Turns  to  her).  Dressed  as  you  are  {speaking  to 
her),  you  could  even  remain  here  to  live  it  out.  Marchioness. 

Donna  Matilda.    You  are  insolent! 

Henry  IV.  {conciliatingly) .  No,  Marchioness,  what  he 
means  to  say  is  that  the  miracle  would  be  complete,  according 
to  him,  with  you  here,  who — as  the  Marchioness  of  Tuscany, 
you  well  know, — could  not  be  my  friend,  save,  as  at  Canossa, 
to  give  me  a  little  pity  .  .  . 

Belcredl  Or  even  more  than  a  little  I  She  said  so  her- 
self! 

Henry  IV.  {to  the  Marchioness,  continuing) .  And  even, 
shall  we  say,  a  little  remorse!  .  .  . 

Belcredi.     Yes,  that  too  she  has  admitted. 

Donna  Matilda  {angry).    Now  look  here  .  .  . 

Henry  IV.  {quickly,  to  placate  her).  Don't  bother  about 
him!     Don't  mind  him!     Let  him  go  Oii  infuriating  me—' 


[Act  III]  ''HENRY   IVr  145 

though  the  doctor's  told  him  not  to.  {Turns  to  Belcredi.)  : 
But  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  trouble  myself  any  more 
about  what  happened  between  us — the  share  you  had  in  my 
misfortune  with  her  (indicates  the  Marchioness  to  hi?n  and, 
pointing  Belcredi  out  to  her)  :  the  part  he  has  now  in 
your  life?  This  is  my  life!  Quite  a  different  thing  from 
your  life!  Your  life,  the  life  in  which  you  have  grown  old 
— I  have  not  lived  that  life  {to  Donna  Matilda).  Was  this 
what  you  wanted  to  show  me  with  this  sacrifice  of  yours, 
dressing  yourself  up  like  this,  according  to  the  Doctor's  idea? 
Excellently  done,  doctor!  Oh,  an  excellent  idea: — '*As  we 
were  then,  eh?  and  as  we  are  now?"  But  I  am  not  a  mad- 
man according  to  your  way  of  thinking,  doctor.  I  know 
very  well  that  that  man  there  {indicates  Di  Nolli)  cannot  be 
me;  because  I  am  Henry  IV.,  and  have  been,  these  twenty 
years,  cast  in  this  eternal  masquerade.  She  has  lived  these 
years  {indicates  the  Marchioness)  !  She  has  enjoyed  them 
and  has  become — look  at  her! — a  woman  I  can  no  longer 
recognize.  It  is  so  that  I  knew  her  {points  to  Frida  and 
draws  near  her)  I  This  is  the  Marchioness  I  know,  always 
this  one!  .  .  .  You  seem  a  lot  of  children  to  be  so  easily 
frightened  by  me  ...  (To  Frida)  :  And  you're  frightened 
too,  little  girl,  aren't  you,  by  the  jest  that  they  made  you 
take  part  in — though  they  didn't  understand  it  wouldn't  be 
the  jest  they  meant  it  to  be,  for  me?  Oh  miracle  of  miracles! 
Prodigy  of  prodigies !  The  dream  alive  in  you !  More  than 
alive  in  you!  It  was  an  image  that  wavered  there  and 
they've  made  you  come  to  life!  Oh,  mine!  You're  mine, 
mine,  mine,  in  my  own  right!  {He  holds  her  in  his  arms, 
laughing  like  a  madman,  while  all  stand  still  terrified.  Then 
as  they  advance  to  tear  Frida  from  his  arms,  he  becomes 
furious,  terrible  and  cries  imperiously  to  his  valets)  :  Hold 
them !    Hold  them !     I  order  you  to  hold  them ! 

{The  four  young  men  amazed,  yet  fascinated,  move  to 


146  ''HENRY  IV"  [Act  III] 

execute  his  orders,  automatically,  and  seize  Di  Nolli,   the 
doctor,  and  Belcredi.) 

Belcredi  {freeing  hi?nself) .  Leave  her  alone!  Leave 
her  alone !    You're  no  madman ! 

Henry  IV.  {In  a  flash  draws  the  sword  from  the  side  of 
Landolph,  who  is  close  to  him).  I'm  not  mad,  eh!  Take 
that,  you!  .  .  .  {Drives  sword  into  him.  A  cry  of  horror 
goes  up.  All  rush  over  to  assist  Belcredi,  crying  out  to- 
gether) : 

Di  NoLLi.     Has  he  wounded  you? 

Berthold.     Yes,  yes,  seriously! 

Doctor.    I  told  you  so! 

Frida.    Oh  God,  oh  God ! 

Di  Nolli.     Frida,  come  here! 

Donna  Matilda.    He's  mad,  mad! 

Di  Nolli.    Hold  him! 

Belcredi  {while  they  take  him  away  by  the  left  exit,  he 
protests  as  he  is  borne  out).  No,  no,  you're  not  mad!  You're 
not  mad.     He's  not  mad! 

{They  go  out  by  the  left  amid  cries  and  excitement.  After 
a  moment,  one  hears  a  still  sharper,  more  piercing  cry  from 
Donna  Matilda,  and  then,  silence). 

Henry  IV.  {zuho  has  remained  on  the  stage  between  Lan- 
dolph, Harold  and  Ordulph,  with  his  eyes  almost  starting 
out  of  his  head,  terrified  by  the  life  of  his  own  masquerade 
which  has  driven  him  to  crime).  Ah  now  .  .  .  yes  now  .  .  . 
inevitably  {calls  his  valets  around  him  as  if  to  protect  him) 
here  together  .  .  .  here  together  .  .  .  for  ever  .  .  .  for 
ever. 

Curtain. 


1 


^4 


[Act  III]  "HENRY  IVr  147 


NOTE  TO  ''HENRY  IV." 

With  the  author's  consent  and  approval,  the  translator 
has  omitted  a  few  lines  from  the  original  Italian  where  their 
highly  parenthetical  character  made  the  English  version 
unnecessarily  complex.  One  or  two  allusions  have  also  been 
suppressed  since  they  have  not  the  same  value  in  English  as  in 
Italian. — E.  S. 


RIGHT  YOU  ARE!    (IF  YOU  THINK  SO) 

(Cost  e,  se  vi  pare!) 
A   PARABLE    IN    THREE   ACTS 


BY 

LUIGI  PIRANDELLO 

translated  by 
Arthur  Livingston 


CHARACTERS,  ,, 

LAMBERTO  LAUDISI.  SIGNORA  FROLA.  PONZA,  SON-IN-LAW 
OF  SIGNORA  FROLA.  SIGNORA  PONZA,  PONZa's  WIFE. 
i^^COMMENDATORE  AGAZZI,  A  PROVINCIAL  COUNCILLOR. 
AMALIA,  HIS  WIFE.  DINA,  THEIR  DAUGHTER.  SIRELLI. 
(b'-SIGNORA  SIRELLI,  HIS  WIFE.  ^^HE  PREFECT. j^  CENTURI, 
A  POLICE  COMMISSIONER.  SIGNORA  CINI.  if^GNORA 
NENNI.  A  BUTLER.  A  NUMBER  OF  GENTLEMEN  AND 
LADIES. 

Our  Own  Times,  in  a  Small  Italian  Town,  the 
Capital  of  a  Province. 


RIGHT  YOU  ARE!    (IF  YOU  THINK  SO) 

ACT  I 

The  parlor  in  the  house  of  Commendatore  Agazzi. 

A  door,  the  general  entrance,  at  the  hack;  doors  leading  to 
the  wings,  left  and  right. 

Laudisi  is  a  man  nearing  the  forties,  quick  and  energetic 
in  his  movements.  He  is  smartly  dressed,  in  good  taste.  At 
this  moment  he  is  wearing  a  semi-formal  street  suit',  a  sack 
coat,  of  a  violet  cast,  with  black  lapels,  and  with  black  braid 
around  the  edges;  trousers  of  a  light  but  different  color' 
Laudisi  has  a  keen,  analytical  mind,  but  is  impatient  and  ir- 
ritable in  argument.  Nevertheless,  hoivever  angry  he  gets 
momentarily ,  his  good  humor  soon  coines  to  prevail.  Then 
he  laughs  and  lets  people  have  their  way,  enjoying,  mean-i 
while,  the  spectacle  of  the  stupidity  and  gullibility  of  others. 

Amalia^  Agazzi  s  zuife,  is  Laudisi  s  sister.  She  is  a  woman 
of  forty-five  more  or  less.  Her  hair  is  already  quite  grey. 
Signora  Agazzi  is  always  showing  a  certain  sense  of  her  own 
importance  from  the  position  occupied  by  her  husband  in  the 
community ;  but  she  gives  you  to  understand  that  if  she  had  a 
free  rein  she  zuould  be  quite  capable  of  playing  her  own  part 
in  the  world  and,  perhaps,  do  it  somewhat  better  than  Com- 
mendatore Agazzi. 

DiNA  is  the  daughter  of  Amalia  and  Agazzi.  She  is  nine- 
teen. Her  general  manner  is  that  of  a  young  person  conscious 
of  understanding  everything  better  than  papa  and  mamma; 
but  this  defect  must  not  be  exaggerated  to  the  extent  of  con- 

151 


152  -    RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  [Act  I] 

cealing  her  attractiveness  and  charm  as  a  good-looking  win- 
some girl. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Laudisi  is  walking  briskly  up  and 
down  the  parlor  to  give  vent  to  his  irritation. 

Laudisi.  I  see,  I  see!  So  he  did  take  the  matter  up 
with  the  prefect! 

Amalia.  But  Lamberto  dear,  please  remember  that  the 
man  is  a  subordinate  of  his. 

Laudisi.  A  subordinate  of  his  .  .  .  very  well!  But  a 
subordinate  in  the  office,  not  at  home  nor  in  society ! 

DiNA.  And  he  hired  an  apartment  for  that  woman,  his 
mother-in-law,  right  here  in  this  very  building,  and  on  our 
floor. 

Laudisi.  And  why  not,  pray?  He  was  looking  for  an 
apartment;  the  apartment  was  for  rent,  so  he  leased  it — for 
his  mother-in-law.  You  mean  to  say  that  a  mother-in-law  is 
in  duty  bound  to  make  advances  to  the  wife  and  daughter  of 
the  man  who  happens  to  be  her  son-in-law's  superior  on  his 
job? 

Amalia.  That  is  not  the  way  it  is,  Lamberto.  We  didn't 
ask  her  to  call  on  us.  Dina  and  I  took  the  first  step  by  calling 
on  her  and — she  refused  to  receive  us! 

Laudisi.  Well,  is  that  any  reason  why  your  husband 
should  go  and  lodge  a  complaint  with  the  man's  boss?  Do 
you  expect  the  government  to  order  him  to  invite  you  to 
tea? 

Amalia.  I  tliink  he  deserves  all  he  gets !  That  is  not  the 
way  to  treat  two  ladies.   I  hope  he  gets  fired !  The  idea ! 

Laudisi.  Oh,  you  women !  I  say,  making  that  complaint 
is  a  dirty  trick.  By  Jove!  If  people  see  fit  to  keep  to  them- 
selves in  their  own  houses,  haven't  they  a  right  to? 

Amalia.  Yes,  but  you  don't  understand !  We  were  try- 
ing to  do  her  a  favor.  She  is  new  in  the  town.  We  wanted 
to  make  her  feel  at  home. 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  153 

DiNA.  Now,  now,  Nunky  dear,  don't  be  so  cross!  Per- 
haps we  did  go  there  out  of  curiosity  more  than  anything 
else;  but  it's  all  so  funny,  isn't  it!  Don't  you  think  it  was 
natural  to  feel  just  a  little  bit  curious? 

Laudisi.  Natural  be  damned !  It  was  none  of  your  busi- 
ness! 

DiNA.  Now,  see  here,  Nunky,  let's  suppose — here  you  are 
right  here  minding  your  own  business  and  quite  indifferent 
to  what  other  people  are  doing  all  around  you.  Very  well! 
I  come  into  the  room  and  right  here  on  this  table,  under  your 
very  nose,  and  with  a  long  face  like  an  undertaker's,  or, 
rather,  with  the  long  face  of  that  jailbird  you  are  defending, 
I  set  down — well,  what? — anything — a  pair  of  dirty  old 
shoes! 

Laudisi.     I  don't  see  the  connection. 

DiNA.  Wait,  don't  interrupt  me!  I  said  a  pair  of  old 
shoes.  Well,  no,  not  a  pair  of  old  shoes — a  flat  iron,  a  roll- 
ing pin,  or  your  shaving  brush  for  instance — and  I  walk  out 
again  without  saying  a  word  to  anybody !  Now  I  leave  it  to 
you,  wouldn't  you  feel  justified  in  wondering  just  a  little, 
little,  bit  as  to  what  in  the  world  I  meant  by  it? 

Laudisi.  Oh,  you're  irresistible,  Dina!  And  you're 
clever,  aren't  you?  But  you're  talking  with  old  Nunky, 
remember !  You  see,  you  have  been  putting  all  sorts  of  crazy 
things  on  the  table  here;  and  you  dlJ  't  with  the  idea  of 
making  me  ask  what  it's  all  about;  and,  of  course,  since  you 
were  doing  all  that  on  purpose,  you  can't  blame  me  if  I  do 
ask,  why  those  old  shoes  just  there,  on  that  table,  dearie? 
But  what's  all  that  got  to  do  with  it?  You'll  have  to  show 
me  now  that  this  Mr.  Ponza  of  ours,  that  jail-bird  as  you  say, 
or  that  rascal,  that  boor,  as  your  father  calls  him,  brought 
his  mother-in-law  to  the  apartment  next  to  ours  with  the 
idea  of  stringing  us  all !  You've  got  to  show  me  that  he  did 
it  on  purpose! 


154  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

DiNA.  I  don't  say  that  he  did  it  nn  purpose — not  at  all! 
But  you  can't  deny  that  this  famous  Mr.  Ponza  has  come  to 
this  town  and  done  a  number  of  things  which  are  unusual, 
to  say  the  least;  and  which  he  must  have  known  were  likely 
to  arouse  a  very  natural  curiosity  in  everybody.  Look  Nunky, 
here  is  a  man:  he  comes  to  town  to  fill  an  important  public 
position,  and— what  does  he  do  ?  Where  does  he  go  to  live  ? 
He  hires  an  apartment  on  the  top  floor,  if  you  please,  of  that  j 
dirty  old  tenement  out  there  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  I 
town.   Now,  I  ask  you — did  you  ever  see  the  place?     Inside?       | 

Laudisi.     I  suppose  you  went  and  had  a  look  at  it? 

DiNA.  Yes,  Nunky  dear,  I  went — with  mamma!  And 
we  weren't  the  only  ones,  you  know.  The  whole  town  has 
been  to  have  a  look  at  it.  It's  a  five  story  tenement  with  an 
interior  court  so  dark  at  noontime  you  can  hardly  see  your 
hand  before  your  face.  Well,  there  is  an  iron  balcony  built 
out  from  the  fifth  story  around  the  courtyard.  A  basket  is 
hanging  from  the  railing  .  .  .  They  let  it  up  and  down — on 
a  rope ! 

Laudisi.     Well,  what  of  it? 

DiNA  {looking  at  him  with  astonished  indigjiation).  What 
of  it?    Well,  there,  if  you  please,  is  where  he  keeps  his  wife! 

Amalia.     While  her  mother  lives  here  next  door  to  us ! 

Laudisi.  A  fashionable  apartment,  for  his  mother-in-law, 
in  the  residential  district! 

Amalia.  Generous  to  the  old  lady,  eh  ?  But  he  does  that 
to  keep  her  from  seeing  her  daughter ! 

Laudisi.  How  do  you  know  that?  How  do  you  know 
that  the  old  lady,  rather,  does  not  prefer  this  arrangement, 
just  to  have  more  elbow  room  for  herself? 

DiNA.     No,  no,  Nunky,  you're  wrong.    Everybody  knows  _^ 
that  it  is  he  who  is  doing  it.  . .    /  "* 

Amalia.     See  here,  Lamberto,  everybody  understands,  4?" 
a  girl,  when  she  marries,  goes  away  from  her  mother  to  live 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU  ARE  I  155 

with  her  husband  in  some  other  town.  But  supposing  this 
poor  mother  can't  stand  being  separated  from  her  daughter 
and  follows  her  to  the  place,  where  she  herself  is  also  a  com- 
plete stranger.  And  supposing  now  she  not  only  does  not 
live  with  her  daughter,  but  is  not  even  allowed  to  see  her? 
I  leave  it  to  you  ...  is  that  so  easy  to  understand? 

Laudisi.  Oh  say,  you  have  about  as  much  imagination  as 
so  many  mud  turtles.  A  mother-in-law  and  a  son-in-law !  Is 
it  so  hard  to  suppose  that  either  through  her  fault  or  his  fault 
or  the  fault  of  both,  they  should  find  it  hard  to  get  along 
together  and  should  therefore  consider  it  wiser  to  live  apart? 

DiNA  {ivith  another  look  of  pitying  astonishment  at  her 
uncle).  How  stupid  of  you,  Nunky!  The  trouble  is  not 
between  the  mother-in-law  and  the  son-in-law,  but  between 
the  mother  and  the  daughter. 

Laudisi.     How  do  you  know  that? 

DiNA.  Because  he  is  as  thick  as  pudding  with  the  old 
lady;  because  they  are  always  together,  arm  in  arm,  and  as 
loving  as  can  be.  Mother-in-law  and  son-in-law,  if  you 
please  I   Whoever  heard  the  like  of  that? 

Amalia.  And  he  comes  here  every  evening  to  see  how 
the  old  lady  is  getting  on ! 

DiNA.  And  that  is  not  the  worst  of  it!  Sometimes  he 
comes  during  the  daytime,  once  or  twice! 

Laudisi.  How  scandalous!  Do  you  think  he  is  making 
love  to  the  old  woman? 

DiNA.  Now  don't  be  improper,  uncle.  No,  we  will 
acquit  him  of  that.  She  is  a  poor  old  lady,  quite  on  her  last 
legs. 

Amalia.  But  he  never,  never,  never  brings  his  wife!  A 
daughter  kept  from  seeing  her  mother!     The  idea! 

Laudisi.  Perhaps  the  young  lady  is  not  well;  perhaps 
she  isn't  able  to  go  out. 


156  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

DiNA.    Nonsense !    The  old  lady  goes  to  see  her  I 

Amalia.  Exactly!  And  she  never  gets  in!  She  can  see 
her  only  from  a  distance.  Now  will  yo\i  explain  to  me  why, 
in  the  name  of  common  sense,  that  poor  mother  should  be 
forbidden  ever  to  enter  her  daughter's  house  ? 

DiNA.  And  if  she  wants  to  talk  to  her  she  has  to  shout 
up  from  the  courtyard! 

Amalia.  Five  stories,  if  you  please!  .  .  .  And  her 
daughter  comes  out  and  looks  down  from  the  balcony  up 
there.  The  poor  old  woman  goes  into  the  courtyard  and 
pulls  a  string  that  leads  up  to  the  balcony ;  a  bell  rings ;  the 
girl  comes  out  and  her  mother  talks  up  at  her,  her  head 
thrown  back,  just  as  though  she  were  shouting  from  out  of 
a  well.  .  .  . 

{There  is  a  knock  at  the  door  and  the  butler  enters). 

Butler.     Callers,  madam! 

Amalia.     Who  is  it,  please? 

Butler.  Signor  Sirelli,  and  the  Signora  with  another 
lady,  madam. 

Amalia.     Very  well,  show  them  in. 

{The  butler  bows  and  withdraws). 

Sirellij  Signora  Sirelli,  Signora  Cini  appear  in  the  door- 
way, rear. 

Sirelli^  also  a  man  of  about  forty,  is  a  bald,  fat  gentle- 
man with  some  pretensions  to  stylish  appearance  that  do  not 
quite  succeed:  the  overdressed  provincial. 

Signora  Sirelli,  his  wife,  plump,  petite,  a  faded  blonde, 
still  young  and  girlishly  pleasing.  She,  too,  is  somewhat 
overdressed  with  the  provincial's  fondness  for  display.  She 
has  the  aggressive  curiosity  of  the  small-town  gossip.  She 
is  chiefly  occupied  in  keeping  her  husband  in  his  place. 

Signora  Cini  is  the  old  provincial  lady  of  affected  man- 
ners, who  takes  malicious  delight  in  the  failings  of  others,  all 


[Act  I]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  157 

the  while  ajfecting  innocence  and  inexperience  regarding  the 
waywardness  of  mankind. 

Amalia  {as  the  visitors  enter ,  and  taking  Signora  Sirelli's 
hands  effusively).     Dearest!     Dearest! 

Signora  Sirelli.  I  took  the  liberty  of  bringing  my  good 
friend,  Signora  Cini,  along.  She  was  so  anxious  to  know 
you! 

Amalia.  So  good  of  you  to  come,  Signora!  Please  make 
yourself  at  home!  My  daughter  Dina,  Signora  Cini,  and 
this  is  my  brother,  Lamberto  Laudisi. 

Sirelli  {bowing  to  the  ladies).  Signora,  Signorina.  {He 
goes  over  and  shakes  hands  with  Laudisi.) 

Signora  Sirelli.  Amalia  dearest,  we  have  come  here 
as  to  the  fountain  of  knowledge.  We  are  two  pilgrims 
athirst  for  the  truth ! 

Amalia.    The  truth  ?    Truth  about  what  ? 

Signora  Sirelli.  Why  .  .  .  about  this  blessed  Mr. 
Ponza  of  ours,  the  new  secretary  at  the  prefecture.  He  is 
the  talk  of  the  town,  take  my  word  for  it,  Amalia. 

Signora  Cini.    And  we  are  all  just  dying  to  find  out! 

Amalia.  But  we  are  as  much  in  the  dark  as  the  rest  of 
you,  I  assure  you,  madam. 

Sirelli  {to  his  wife).  What  did  I  tell  you?  They  know 
no  more  about  it  than  I  do.  In  fact,  I  think  they  know  less 
about  it  than  I  do.  Why  is  it  this  poor  woman  is  not 
allowed  to  see  her  daughter  ?  Do  you  know  the  reason,  you 
people,  the  real  reason? 

Amalia.  Why,  I  was  just  discussing  the  matter  with  my 
brother. 

Laudisi.  And  my  view  of  it  is  that  you're  all  a  pack  of 
gossips ! 

Dina.  The  reason  is,  they  say,  that  Ponza  will  not  allow 
her  to. 


158  filGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  Not  a  sufficient  reason,  if  I  may  say  so, 
Signorina. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  Quite  insufficient!  There's  more  to 
it  than  that! 

SiRELLi.  I  have  a  new  item  for  you,  fresh,  right  off  the 
ice:  he  keeps  her  locked  up  at  home! 

Amalia.    His  mother-in-law? 

SiRELLi.    No,  no,  his  wife! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.     Under  lock  and  key! 

DiNA.  There,  Nunky,  what  have  you  to  say  to  that? 
And  you've  been  trying  to  defend  him  all  along! 

SiRELLi  {staring  in  astonishment  at  Laudisi) .  Trying  to 
defend  that  man?     Really  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Defending  him?  No!  I  am  not  defending 
anybody.  All  I'm  saying,  if  you  ladies  will  excuse  me,  is 
that  all  this  gossip  is  not  worthy  of  you.  More  than  that, 
you  are  just  wasting  your  breath;  because,  so  far  as  I  can 
see,  you're  not  getting  anywhere  at  all. 

SiRELLi.     I  don't  follow  you,  sir ! 

Laudisi.     You're  getting  nowhere,  my  charming  ladies! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  But  we're  trying  to  get  somewhere — we 
are  trying  to  find  out ! 

Laudisi.  Excuse  me,  what  can  you  find  out?  What  can 
we  really  know  about  other  people — who  they  are — what 
they  are — what  they  are  doing,  and  why  they  are  doing  it  ? 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  How  Can  we  know?  Why  not?  By 
asking,  of  course!  You  tell  me  what  you  know,  and  I  tell 
you  what  I  know. 

Laudisi.  In  that  case,  madam,  you  ought  to  be  the  best 
informed  person  in  the  world.  Why,  your  husband  knows 
more  about  what  others  are  doing  than  any  other  man — or 
woman,  for  that  matter — in  this  neighborhood. 

SiRELLi  {deprecatingly  but  pleased).   Oh  I  say,  I  say  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi  {to  her  husband) .     No  dear,  he's  rights 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU  ARE!  159 

he's  right.  {Then  turning  to  Amalia) '.  The  real  truth, 
Amalia,  is  this:  for  all  my  husband  says  he  knows,  I  never 
manage  to  keep  posted  on  anything! 

SiRELLi.  And  no  wonder!  The  trouble  is — that  woman 
never  trusts  me!  The  moment  I  tell  her  something  she  is 
convinced  it  is  not  quite  as  I  say.  Then,  sooner  or  later, 
she  claims  that  it  cant  be  as  I  say.  And  at  last  she  is  certain 
it  is  the  exact  opposite  of  what  I  say ! 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  Well,  you  ought  to  hear  all  he  tells 
me! 

Laudisi  {laughing  aloud).  Hah!  Hah!  Hah!  Hah! 
Hah!  Hah!  Hah!  May  I  speak,  madam ?  Let  me  answer 
your  husband.  My  dear  Sirelli,  how  do  you  expect  your 
wife  to  be  satisfied  with  things  as  you  explain  them  to  her, 
if  you,  as  is  natural,  represent  them  as  they  seem  to  you  ? 

SiGNORA  Sirelli.  And  that  means — as  they  cannot  pos- 
sibly be! 

Laudisi.  Why  no,  Signora,  now  you  are  wrong.  From 
your  husband's  point  of  view  things  are,  I  assure  you,  exactly 
as  he  represents  them. 

Sirelli.    As  they  are  in  reality ! 

SiGNORA  Sirelli.    Not  at  all !    You  are  always  wrong. 

Sirelli.  No,  not  a  bit  of  it!  It  is  you  who  are  always 
wrong.     I  am  always  right. 

Laudisi.  The  fact  is  that  neither  of  you  is  wrong.  May 
I  explain  ?  I  will  prove  it  to  you.  Now  here  you  are,  you, 
Sirelli,  and  Signora  Sirelli,  your  wife,  there;  and  here  I  am. 
You  see  me,  don't  you  ? 

Sirelli.    Well  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  yes. 

Laudisi.    Do  you  see  me,  or  do  you  not? 

Sirelli.    Oh,  I'll  bite!    Of  course  I  see  you. 

Laudisi.  So  you  see  me!  But  that's  not  enough.  Come 
here ! 

Sirelli  {smiling,  he  obeys,  but  with  a  puzzled  expression 


160  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  [Act  I] 

on  his  face  as  though  he  fails  to  understand  what  Laudisi  is 
driving  at).  Well,  here  I  am! 

Laudisi.     Yes!      Now   take   a  better  look   at   me  .  . 
Touch  me !    That's  it — that's  It !    Now  you  are  touching  mer 
are  you  not?    And  you  see  me!    You're  sure  you  see  me? 

SiRELLi.    Why,  I  should  say  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Yes,  but  the  point  is,  you're  sure!  Of  course 
you're  sure!  Now  if  you  please,  Signora  Sirelli,  you  come 
here — or  rather  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  (gallantly)  it  is  my  place  to 
come  to  you!  {He  goes  over  to  Signora  Sirelli  and  kneels 
chivalrously  on  one  knee).  You  see  me,  do  you  not,  madam? 
Now  that  hand  of  yours  .  .  .  touch  me !  A  pretty  hand,  on 
my  word!     {He  pats  her  hand). 

Sirelli.     Easy !    Easy ! 

Laudisi.  Never  mind  your  husband,  madam !  Now,  you 
have  touched  me,  have  you  not  ?  And  you  see  me  ?  And  you 
are  absolutely  sure  about  me,  are  you  not?  Well  now, 
madam,  I  beg  of  you ;  do  not  tell  your  husband,  nor  my  sister, 
nor  my  niece,  nor  Signora  Cini  here,  what  you  think  of  me ; 
because,  if  you  were  to  do  that,  they  would  all  tell  you  that 
you  are  completely  wrong.  But,  you  see,  you  are  really 
right ;  because  I  am  really  what  you  take  me  to  be ;  though, 
my  dear  madam,  that  does  not  prevent  me  from  also  being 
really  what  your  husband,  my  sister,  my  niece,  and  Signora 
Cini  take  me  to  be — because  they  also  are  absolutely  right! 

Signora  Sirelli.  In  other  words  you  are  a  different 
person  for  each  of  us. 

Laudisi.  Of  course  I'm  a  different  person!  And  you, 
madam,  pretty  as  you  are,  aren't  you  a  different  person,  too? 

Signora  Sirelli  {hastily).  No  siree!  I  assure  you,  as 
far  as  I'm  concerned,  I'm  always  the  same  always,  yester- 
day, today,  and  forever! 

Laudisi.  Ah,  but  so  am  I,  from  my  point  of  view,  be- 
lieve me!     And,  I  would  say  that  you  are  all  mistaken  un- 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  161 

l<^s  you  see  me  as  I  see  myself;  but  that  would  be  an  inex- 
cusable presumption  on  my  part — as  it  would  be  on  yours, 
my  dear  madam! 

SiRELLi.  And  what  has  all  this  rigmarole  got  to  do  with 
it,  may  I  ask? 

Laudisi.     What  has  it  got  to  do  with  it?    Why  .  .  .  I  ^ 
find  all  you  people  here  at  your  wits'  ends  trying  to  find  out 
who  and  what  other  people  are;  just  as  though  other  people    j 
had  to  be  this,  or  that,  and  nothing  else. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  All  you  are  saying  is  that  we  can  never 
find  out  the  truth!     A  dreadful  idea! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  I  give  up !  I  give  up !  If  we  can't  be- 
lieve even  what  we  see  with  our  eyes  and  feel  with  our 
fingers  .  .  . 

Laudisi.    But  you  must  understand,  madam !     Of  course 
you  can  believe  what  you  see  with  your  eyes  and  feel  with 
your  fingers.     All  I'm  saying  is  that  you  should  show  some 
respect  for  what  other  people  see  with  their  eyes  and  feel  ( 
with  their  fingers,  even  though  it  be  the  exact  opposite  of   * 
what  you  see  and  feel. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLl.  The  way  to  answer  you  is  to  refuse  to 
talk  with  you.  See,  I  turn  my  back  on  you!  I  am  going 
to  move  my  chair  around  and  pretend  you  aren't  in  the 
room.    Why,  you're  driving  me  crazy,  crazy! 

Laudisi.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Don't  let  me  inter- 
fere with  your  party.  Please  go  on!  Pray  continue  your 
argument  about  Signora  Frola  and  Signor  Ponza — I  promise 
not  to  interrupt  again ! 

Amalia.  You're  right  for  once,  Lamberto;  and  I  think 
it  would  be  even  better  if  you  should  go  into  the  other 
room. 

Dina.  Serves  you  right,  Nunky!  Into  the  other  room 
with  you,  into  the  other  room ! 

Laudisi.    No,  I  refuse  to  budge!    Fact  is,  I  enjoy  hearing 


162  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

,VOu  gossip;  but  I  promise  not  to  say  anything  more,  don't 
fear!  At  the  very  most,  with  your  permission,  I  shall  in- 
dulge in  a  laugh  or  two. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  How  funny  .  .  .  and  our  idea  in  com- 
ing here  was  to  find  out  .  .  .  But  really,  Amalia,  I  thought 
this  Ponza  man  was  5  our  husband's  secretary  at  the  Provin- 
cial building. 

Amalia.  He  is  his  secretary — in  the  office.  But  here  at 
home  what  authority  has  Agazzi  over  the  fellow? 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  Of  course!  I  understand!  But  may 
I  ask  .  .  .  haven't  you  even  tried  to  see  Signora  Frola,  next 
door? 

DiNA.  Tried?  I  should  say  we  had!  Twice,  Signora! 
SiGNORA  CiNi.  Well  ...  so  then  .  .  .  you  have  probably 
talked  to  her  .  .  . 

DiNA.    We  were  not  received,  if  you  please ! 

Signora  Sirelli,  Sirelli,  Signora  Cini  {in  chorus). 
Not  received?    Why!     WTiy!     Why! 

Dina.     This  very  forenoon! 

Amalia.  The  first  time  we  waited  fully  fifteen  minutes 
at  the  door.  We  rang  and  rang  and  rang,  and  no  one  came. 
Why,  we  weren't  even  able  to  leave  our  cards !  So  we  went 
back  today  .  .  . 

Dina  {throwing  up  her  hands  in  an  expression  of  horror). 
And  he  came  to  the  door. 

Signora  Sirelli.  Why  yes,  with  that  face  of  his  .  .  . 
you  can  tell  by  just  looking  at  the  man  .  .  .  Such  a  face! 
Such  a  face!  You  can't  blame  people  for  talking!  And 
then,  with  that  black  suit  of  his  .  .  ,  Why,  they  all  dress 
in  black.  Did  you  ever  notice?  Even  the  old  lady!  And 
the  man's  eyes,  too !  .  .  . 

Sirelli  {with  a  glance  of  pitying  disgust  at  his  wife). 
What  do  you  know  about  his  eyes  ?  You  never  saw  his  eyes ! 
And  you  never  saw  the  woman.     How  do  you  know  she 


J 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  163 

dresses  in  black?  Probably  she  dresses  in  black  ...  By  the 
way,  they  come  from  a  little  town  in  the  next  county.  Had 
you  heard  that?     A  village  called  Marsica! 

Amalia.  Yes,  the  village  that  was  destroyed  a  short  time 
ago. 

SiRELLi.  Exactly !  By  an  earthquake !  Not  a  house  left 
standing  in  the  place. 

DiNA.  And  all  their  relatives  were  lost,  I  have  heard. 
Mot  one  of  them  left  in  the  world ! 

SiGNORA  CiNl  {impatient  to  get  on  with  the  story). 
Very  well,  very  well,  so  then  ...  he  came  to  the  door  .  .  . 

Amalia.  Yes  .  .  .  And  the  moment  I  saw  him  in  front 
of  me  with  that  weird  face  of  his  I  had  hardly  enough  gump- 
tion left  to  tell  him  that  we  had  just  come  to  call  on  his 
mother-in-law,  and  he  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  not  a  word,  not  a 
word  .  .  .  not  even  a  "thank  you,"  if  you  please! 

DiNA.    That  is  not  quite  fair,  mama:  ...  he  did  bow! 

Amalia.  Well,  yes,  a  bow  ...  if  you  want  to  call  it 
fhat.     Something  like  this!  .  .  . 

DiNA.  And  his  eyes!  You  ought  to  see  his  eyes — the 
eyes  of  a  devil,  and  then  some!  You  never  saw  a  man  with 
eyes  like  that! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.    Very  well,  what  did  he  say,  finally? 

DiNA.     He  seemed  quite  taken  aback. 

Amalia.  He  was  all  confused  like ;  He  hitched  about  for 
a  time;  and  at  last  he  said  that  Signora  Frola  was  not  feeling 
well,  but  that  she  would  appreciate  our  kindness  in  having 
come;  and  then  he  just  stood  there,  and  stood  there,  appar- 
ently waiting  for  us  to  go  away. 

DiNA.    I  never  was  more  mortified  in  my  life ! 

SiRELLi.  A  boor,  a  plain  boor,  I  say!  Oh,  it's  his  fault, 
I  am  telling  you.  And  .  .  .  who  knows?  Perhaps  he  has 
got  the  old  lady  also  under  lock  and  key. 

SiGNORA   SiRELLi.     Well,   I   think  something  should  be 


164  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

done  about  it !  .  .  .  After  all,  you  are  the  wife  of  a  superior 
of  his.    You  can  refuse  to  be  treated  like  that. 

Amalia.  As  far  as  that  goes,  my  husband  did  take  it 
rather  badly — as  a  lack  of  courtesy  on  the  man's  part;  and 
he  went  straight  to  the  prefect  with  the  matter,  insisting  on 
an  apology. 

Signor  Agazzi,  commendatore  and  provincial  councillor, 
appears  in  the  doorway  rear. 

DiNA.    Oh  goody,  here's  papa  now ! 

Agazzi  is  well  on  toward  fifty.  He  has  the  harsh,  au- 
thoritarian manner  of  the  provincial  of  importance.  Red 
hair  and  beard,  rather  unkempt;  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses. 

Agazzi.  Oh  Sirelli,  glad  to  see  you!  {He  steps  forward 
and  bows  to  the  company). 

Agazzi.  Signora!  .  .  .  {He  shakes  hands  with  Signora 
Sirelli). 

Amalia  {introducing  Signora  Cini).  My  husband,  Sig' 
nora  Cini! 

Agazzi  {with  a  bow  and  taking  her  hand).  A  great 
pleasure,  madam!  {Then  turning  to  his  wife  and  daughter 
in  a  mysterious  voice)  :  I  have  come  back  from  the  office  to 
give  you  some  real  news !   Signora  Frola  will  be  here  shortly. 

Signora  Sirelli  {clapping  her  hands  delightedly).  Oh, 
the  mother-in-law !     She  is  coming?    Really?    Coming  here? 

Sirelli  {going  over  to  Agazzi  and  pressing  his  hand 
warmly  as  an  expression  of  admiration).  That's  the  talk, 
old  man,  that's  the  talk!  What's  needed  here  is  some  show 
of  authority. 

Agazzi.  Why  I  had  to,  you  see,  I  had  to!  ...  I  can't 
let  a  man  treat  my  wife  and  daughter  that  way !  .  .  . 

Sirelli.  I  should  say  not!  I  was  just  expressing  myself 
to  that  effect  right  here. 

Signora  Sirelli.  And  it  would  have  been  entirely  proper 
to  inform  the  prefect  also  ... 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU  ARE!  165 

Agazzi  {anticipating) .  ...  of  all  the  talk  that  is  going 
around  on  this  fine  gentleman's  account?  Oh,  leave  that  to 
me!     I  didn't  miss  the  opportunity. 

SiRELLi.    Fine!    Fine! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.    And  such  talk! 

Amalia.  For  my  part,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing. 
Why,  do  you  know^,  he  has  them  both  under  lock  and  key! 

DiNA.  No,  mama,  we  are  not  quite  sure  of  that.  We  are 
not  quite  sure  about  the  old  lady,  yet. 

Amalia.    Well,  we  know  it  about  his  wife,  anj^way. 

SiRELLi.    And  what  did  the  prefect  have  to  say? 

Agazzi.  Oh  the  prefect  .  .  .  well,  the  prefect  ...  he 
was  very  much  impressed,  very  much  impressed,  with  what  I 
had  to  say. 

SiRELLi.     I  should  hope  so! 

Agazzi.  You  see,  some  of  the  talk  had  reached  his  ears 
already.  And  he  agrees  that  it  is  better,  as  a  matter  of  his 
own  official  prestige,  for  all  this  mystery  in  connection  with 
one  of  his  assistants  to  be  cleared  up,  so  that  once  and  for 
all  we  shall  know  the  truth. 

Laudisi.     Hah,  hah,  hah,  hah,  hah,  hah,  hah! 

Amalia.  That  is  Lamberto's  usual  contribution.  He 
laughs ! 

Agazzi.    And  what  is  there  to  laugh  about? 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  Why  he  says  that  no  one  can  ever 
know  the  truth. 

(The  butler  appears  at  the  door  in  back  set). 

The  Butler.    Excuse  me,  Signora  Frola! 

SiRELLi.    Ah,  here  she  is  now! 

Agazzi.    Now  we'll  see  if  we  can  settle  it! 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.     Splendid!     Oh,  I  am  so  glad  I  came. 

Amalia  {rising).    Shall  we  have  her  come  in? 

Agazzi.    Wait,  you  keep  your  seat,  Amalia!    Let's  have 


166  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  [Act  I] 

her  come  right  in  here.  {Turning  to  the  butler).     Show  h^r 
in! 

Exit  butler. 

A  moment  later  all  rise  as  Signora  Frola  enters,  and 
Amalia  steps  forward,  holding  out  her  hand  in  greeting. 

Signora  Frola  is  a  slight,  modestly  but  neatly  dressed 
old  lady,  very  eager  to  talk  and  apparently  fond  of  people. 
There  is  a  world  of  sadness  in  her  eyes,  tempered  however, 
by  a  gentle  smile  that  is  constantly  playing  about  her  lips. 

Amalia.  Come  right  in,  Signora  Frola!  {She  takes  the 
old  lady's  hand  and  begins  the  introductions) .  Mrs.  Sirelli, 
a  good  friend  of  mine;  Signora  Cini;  my  husband;  Mr. 
Sirelli ;  and  this  is  my  daughter,  Dina ;  my  brother  Lamberto 
Laudisi.     Please  take  a  chair,  Signora! 

Signora  Frola.  Oh,  I  am  so  very,  very  sorry!  I  have 
come  to  excuse  myself  for  having  been  so  negligent  of  my 
social  duties.  You,  Signora  Agazzi,  were  so  kind,  so  very 
kind,  to  have  honored  me  with  a  first  call — when  really  it 
was  my  place  to  leave  my  card  with  you ! 

Amalia.  Oh,  we  are  just  neighbors,  Signora  Frola!  Why 
stand  on  ceremony?  I  just  thought  that  you,  being  new  in 
town  and  all  alone  by  yourself,  would  perhaps  like  to  have 
a  little  company. 

Signora  Frola.    Oh,  how  very  kind  of  you  it  was! 

Signora  Sirelli.     And  you  are  quite  alone,  aren't  you  ? 

Signora  Frola.  Oh  no!  No!  I  have  a  daughter, 
married,  though  she  hasn't  been  here  very  long,  either. 

Sirelli.  And  your  daughter's  husband  is  the  new  secre- 
tary at  the  prefecture,  Signor  Ponza,  I  believe? 

Signora  Frola.  Yes,  yes,  exactly!  And  I  hope  that 
Signor  Agazzi,  as  his  superior,  will  be  good  enough  to  ex- 
cuse me — and  him,  too ! 

Agazzi.  I  will  be  quite  frank  with  you,  madam !  I  was 
a  bit  put  out. 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU  ARE!  167 

SiGNORA  Frola  {interrupting).  And  you  were  quite 
right!  But  I  do  hope  you  will  forgive  him.  You  see,  we 
are  still — what  shall  I  say — still  so  upset  by  the  terrible 
things  that  have  happened  to  us  .  .  . 

Amalia.    You  went  through  the  earthquake,  didn't  you  ? 
SiGNORA  SiRELLl.     And  you  lost  all  your  relatives? 
SiGXORA  Frola.     Every  one  of  them!     All  our  family — 
yes,  madam.    And  our  village  was  left  just  a  miserable  ruin, 
a  pile  of  bricks  and  stones  and  mortar. 
SiRELLl.    Yes,  we  heard  about  it. 

SiGNORA  Frola.  It  wasn't  so  bad  for  me,  I  suppose.  I 
had  only  one  sister  and  her  daughter,  and  my  niece  had  no 
family.  But  my  poor  son-in-law  had  a  much  harder  time  of 
it.  He  lost  his  mother,  two  brothers,  and  their  wives,  a 
sister  and  her  husband,  and  there  were  two  little  ones,  his 
nephew^s. 

SiRELLi.     A  massacre! 

SiGNORA   Frola.     Oh,   one   doesn't   forget  such   things! 
You  see,  it  sort  of  leaves  you  with  your  feet  off  the  ground. 
Amalia.     I  can  imagine. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  And  all  over-night  with  no  warning  at 
Jill!     It's  a  wonder  you  didn't  go  mad. 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Well,  yoii  see,  we  haven't  quite  gotten 
»iur  bearings  yet;  and  we  do  things  that  may  seem  impoHte, 
without  in  the  least  intending  to.  I  hope  you  understand ! 
Agazzi.  Oh  please,  Signora  Frola,  of  course ! 
Amalia.  In  fact  it  was  partly  on  account  of  your  trouble 
that  my  daughter  and  I  thought  w^e  ought  to  go  to  see  you 
first. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi  {literally  writhing  with  curiosity).  Yes, 
of  course,  since  they  saw  you  all  alone  by  yourself,  and  yet 
.  .  .  excuse  me,  Signora  Frola  ...  if  the  question  doesn't 
seem   impertinent  .  .  .  how  is   it    that   when   you   have   a 


168  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

daughter  here  in  town  and  after  a  disaster  like  the  one  you 
have  been  through  ...  I  should  think  you  people  would 
all  stand  together,  that  you  would  need  one  another. 

SiGNORA  Fro  LA.    Whereas  I  am  left  here  all  by  myself  ? 

SiRELLi.  Yes,  exactly.  I]t  does  seem  strange,  to  tell  the 
honest  truth. 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Oh,  I  understand — of  course !  But  you 
know,  I  have  a  feeling  that  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman 
who  have  married  should  be  left  a  good  deal  to  themselves. 

Laudisi.  Quite  so,  quite  so!  They  should  be  left  to 
themselves.  They  are  beginning  a  life  of  their  own,  a 
life  different  from  anything  they  have  led  before.  One 
should  not  interfere  in  these  relations  between  a  husband  and 
a  wife ! 

SiGNORA  SiRELLl.  But  there  are  limits  to  everything, 
Laudisi,  if  you  will  excuse  me!  And  when  it  comes  to 
shutting  one's  own  mother  out  of  one's  life  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Who  is  shutting  her  out  of  the  girl's  life? 
Here,  if  I  have  understood  the  lady,  we  see  a  mother  who 
understands  that  her  daughter  cannot  and  must  not  remain 
so  closely  associated  with  her  as  she  was  before,  for  now  the 
young  woman  must  begin  a  new  life  on  her  own  account. 

SiGNORA  Frola  {with  evidence  of  keen  gratitude  and  re- 
lief). You  have  hit  the  point  exactly,  sir.  You  have  said 
what  I  would  like  to  have  said.  You  are  exactly  right! 
Thank  you ! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  But  your  daughter,  I  imagine,  often 
comes  to  see  you  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  Frola  {hesitating,  and  manifestly  ill  at  ease). 
Why    yes  ...  I  ...  I  ...  we    do    see    each    other,    of 


course 


Sirelli  {quickly  pressing  the  advantage).  But  your 
daughter  never  goes  out  of  her  house!  At  least  no  one  in 
town  has  ever  seen  her. 


[Act  I]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  165 

SiGNORA  CiNl.  Oh,  she  probably  has  her  little  ones  to 
take  care  of. 

SiGNORA  Frola  {speaking  up  quickly).  No,  there  are  no 
children  yet,  and  perhaps  there  won't  be  any,  now.  You  see, 
she  has  been  married  seven  years.  Oh,  of  course,  she  has 
a  lot  to  do  about  the  house ;  but  that  is  not  the  reason,  really. 
You  know,  we  women  who  come  from  the  little  towns  in 
the  country — we  are  used  to  staying  indoors  much  of  the 
time. 

Agazzi.  Even  when  your  mothers  are  living  in  the  same 
town,  but  not  in  your  house?  You  prefer  staying  indoors  to 
going  and  visiting  your  mothers? 

Amalia.  But  it's  Signora  Frola  probably  who  visits  her 
daughter. 

SiGNORA  Frola  (quickly).  Of  course,  of  course,  why 
not!     I  go  there  once  or  twice  a  day. 

SiRELLi.  And  once  or  twice  a  day  you  climb  all  those 
stairs  up  to  the  fifth  story  of  that  tenement,  eh  ? 

SiGNORA  Frola  {growing  pale  and  trying  to  conceal  under 
a  laugh  the  torture  of  that  cross-examination).  Why  .  .  . 
er  .  .  .  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  go  up.  You're  right,  five 
flights  would  be  quite  too  much  for  me.  No,  I  don't  go  up. 
My  daughter  comes  out  on  the  balcony  in  the  courtyard  and 
.  .  .  well  .  .  .  we  see  each  other  .  .  .  and  we  talk! 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  And  that's  all,  eh?  How  terrible! 
You  never  see  each  other  more  intimately  than  that? 

DiNA.  I  have  a  mama  and  certainly  I  wouldn't  expect 
her  to  go  up  five  flights  of  stairs  to  see  me,  either;  but 
at  the  same  time  I  could  never  stand  talking  to  her  that  way, 
shouting  at  the  top  of  my  lungs  from  a  balcony  on  the  fifth 
story.  I  am  sure  I  should  want  a  kiss  from  her  occasionally, 
and  feel  her  near  me,  at  least. 

SiGNORA  Frola  {with  evident  signs  of  embarrassment 
and  confusion) ,    And  you're  right !    Yes,  exactly  .  .  .  quite 


170  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  {Act  I] 

right!  I  must  explain.  Yes  ...  I  hope  you  people  are  not 
going  to  think  that  my  daughter  is  something  she  really  is 
not.  You  must  not  suspect  her  of  having  so  little  regard  for 
me  and  for  my  years,  and  you  mustn't  believe  that  I,  her 
mother,  am  .  .  .  v^ell  .  .  .  five,  six,  even  more  stories  to 
climb  would  never  prevent  a  real  mother,  even  if  she  were 
as  old  and  infirm  as  I  am,  from  going  to  her  daughter's  side 
and  pressing  her  to  her  heart  with  a  real  mother's  love  .  .  . 
oh  no! 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi  {triumphantly).  There  you  have  it, 
there  you  have  it,  just  as  we  were  saying! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  But  there  must  be  a  reason,  there  must 
be  a  reason! 

Amalia  {poifitedly  to  her  brother).  Aha,  Lamberto,  now 
you  see,  there  is  a  reason,  after  all ! 

SiRELLi  (insisting).     Your  son-in-law,  I  suppose? 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Oh  please,  please,  please,  don't  think 
badly  of  him.  He  is  such  a  very  good  boy.  Good  is  no 
name  for  it,  my  dear  sir.  You  can't  imagine  all  he  does  for 
me!  Kind,  attentive,  solicitous  for  my  comfort,  everything! 
And  as  for  my  daughter — I  doubt  if  any  girl  ever  had  a  more 
affectionate  and  well-intentioned  husband.  No,  on  that  point 
I  am  proud  of  myself !  I  could  not  have  found  a  better  man 
for  her. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  Well  then  .  .  .  What?  What? 
fVhatf 

SiGNORA  CiNi.    So  your  son-in-law  is  not  the  reason  ? 

Agazzi.  I  never  thought  it  was  his  fault.  Can  you 
imagine  a  man  forbidding  his  wife  to  call  on  her  mother, 
or  preventing  the  mother  from  paying  an  occasional  visit 
to  her  daughter  ? 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Oh,  it's  not  a  case  of  forbidding!  Who 
ever  dreamed  of  such  a  thing!  No,  it's  we,  Commendatorc, 
I  and  my  daughter,  that  is.     Oh,  please,  believe  me!     We 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  '  171 

refrain  from  visiting  each  other  of  our  own  accord,  out  of 
consideration  for  him,  you  understand. 

Agazzi.  But  excuse  me  .  .  .  how  in  the  world  could 
he  be  offended  by  such  a  thing?    I  dont  understand. 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Oh,  please  don't  be  angry,  Signor 
Agazzi.  You  see  it's  a  .  .  .  what  shall  I  say  ...  a  feel- 
ing .  .  .  that's  it,  a  feeling,  which  it  would  perhaps  be  very 
hard  for  anyone  else  to  understand;  and  yet,  when  you  do 
understand  it,  it's  all  so  simple,  I  am  sure  ...  so  simple 
.  .  .  and  believe  me,  my  dear  friends,  it  is  no  slight  sacrifice 
that  I  am  making,  and  that  my  daughter  is  making,  too. 

Agazzi.  Well,  one  thing  you  will  admit,  madam.  This 
is  a  very,  very  unusual  situation. 

SiRELLi.  Unusual,  indeed!  And  such  as  to  justify  a 
curiosity  even  more  persistent  than  ours. 

Agazzi.  It  is  not  only  unusual,  madam.  I  might  even 
say  it  is  suspicious. 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Suspicious?  You  mean  you  suspect 
Signor  Ponza?  Oh  please,  Commendatore,  don't  say  th^t. 
What  fault  can  you  possibly  find  with  him,  Signor  Agazzi? 

Agazzi.  I  didn't  say  just  that  .  .  .  Please  don't  mis- 
understand! I  said  simply  that  the  situation  is  so  very 
strange  that  people  might  legitimately  suspect  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  What  could  they 
suspect.  We  are  in  perfect  agreement,  all  of  us;  and  we  are 
really  quite  happy,  very  happy,  I  might  even  say  .  .  .  both 
I  and  my  daughter. 

SiGNORA  Sirelli.     Perhaps  it's  a  case  of  jealousy? 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Jealousy  of  me?  It  would  be  hardly 
fair  to  say  that,  although  .  .  .  really  ...  oh,  it  is  so  hard 
to  explain!  .  .  .  You  see,  he  is  in  love  with  my  daughter 
...  so  much  so  that  he  wants  her  whole  heart,  her  every 
thought,  as  it  were,  for  himself;  so  much  so  that  he  insists 
that  the  affections  which  my  daughter  must  have  for  me,  her 


172  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

mother — he  finds  that  love  quite  natural  of  course,  why  not  ? 
Of  course  he  does! — should  reach  me  through  him — that's 
it,  through  him — don't  you  understand  ? 

Agazzi.  Oh,  that  is  going  pretty  strong!  No,  I  don't 
understand.  In  fact  it  seems  to  me  a  case  of  downright 
cruelty ! 

SiGNORA  Fro  LA.  Cruelty?  No,  no,  please  don't  call  it 
cruelty,  Commendatore.  It  is  something  else,  believe  me! 
You  see  it's  so  hard  for  me  to  explain  the  matter.  Nature, 
perhaps  .  .  .  but  no,  that's  hardly  the  word.  What  shall  I 
call  it?  Perhaps  a  sort  of  disease.  It's  a  fullness  of  love,  of 
a  love  shut  off  from  the  world.  There,  I  guess  that's  it  .  .  . 
a  fullness  ...  a  completeness  of  devotion  in  which  his  wife 
must  live  without  ever  departing  from  it,  and  into  which  no 
other  person  must  ever  be  allowed  to  enter. 

DiNA.     Not  even  her  mother,  I  suppose? 

SiRELLi.  It  is  the  worst  case  of  selfishness  I  ever  heard 
of,  if  you  want  my  opinion ! 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Selfishness?  Perhaps!  But  a  selfishness, 
after  all,  which  offers  itself  wholly  in  sacrifice.  A  case  where 
the  selfish  person  gives  all  he  has  in  the  world  to  the  one  he 
loves.  Perhaps  it  would  be  fairer  to  call  me  selfish ;  for  selfish 
it  surely  is  for  me  to  be  always  trying  to  break  into  this  closed 
world  of  theirs,  break  in  by  force  if  necessary ;  when  I  know 
that  my  daughter  is  really  so  happy,  so  passionately  adored — ■ 
you  ladies  understand,  don't  you  ?  A  true  mother  should  be 
satisfied  when  she  knows  her  daughter  is  happy,  oughtn't  she? 
Besides  I'm  not  completely  separated  from  my  daughter,  am 
I?  I  see  her  and  I  speak  to  her  {She  assumes  a  more  con- 
fidential tone).  You  see,  when  she  lets  down  the  basket 
there  in  the  courtyard  I  always  find  a  letter  in  it — a  short 
note,  which  keeps  me  posted  on  the  news  of  the  day;  and  I 
put  in  a  little  letter  that  I  have  written.  That  is  some  con- 
solation, a  great  consolation  indeed,  and  now,  in  course  of 


[Act  I]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  173 

time,  I've  grown  used  to  it.  I  am  resigned,  there!  Re- 
signation, that's  it!  And  I've  ceased  really  to  suffer  from  it 
at  all. 

Amalia.  Oh  well  then,  after  all,  if  you  people  are  satis- 
fied, why  should  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  Frola  (rising).  Oh  yes,  yes!  But,  remember, 
I  told  you  he  is  such  a  good  man !  Believe  me,  he  couldn't  be 
better,  really!  We  all  have  our  weaknesses  in  this  world, 
haven't  we !  And  we  get  along  best  by  having  a  little  charity, 
a  little  indulgence,  for  one  another.  (She  holds  out  her  hand 
to  Amalia).  Thank  you  for  calling,  madam.  (She  bows  to 
Signora  Sirelli,  Signora  Cini,  and  Dina;  then  turning  to 
Agazzi,  she  continues)  :  And  I  do  hope  you  have  forgiven 
me! 

Agazzi.  Oh,  my  dear  madam,  please,  please!  And  we 
are  extremely  grateful  for  your  having  come  to  call  on  us. 

Signora  Frola  (offering  her  hand  to  Sirelli  and  Laudisi 
and  again  turning  to  Amalia  who  has  risen  to  show  her  out). 
Oh  no,  please,  Signora  Agazzi,  please  stay  here  with  your 
friends!     Don't  put  yourself  to  any  trouble! 

Amalia.  No,  no,  I  will  go  with  you;  and  believe  me, 
we  w^ere  very,  very  glad  to  see  you! 

(Exit  Signora  Frola  with  Amalia  showing  her  the  way. 
Amalia  returns  immediately) . 

Sirelli.  Well,  there  you  have  the  story,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men !    Are  you  satisfied  with  the  explanation  ? 

Agazzi.  An  explanation,  you  call  it?  So  far  as  I  can 
see  she  has  explained  nothing.  I  tell  you  there  is  some  big 
mystery  in  all  this  business. 

Signora  Sirelli.  That  poor  woman !  Who  knows  what 
torment  she  must  be  suffering? 

Dina.    And  to  think  of  that  poor  girl ! 

Signora  Cini.  She  could  hardly  keep  in  her  tears  as  she 
talked. 


174  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

Amalia.  Yes,  and  did  you  notice  when  I  CDentioned  all 
those  stairs  she  would  have  to  climb  before  really  being  able 
to  see  her  daughter  ? 

Laudisi.  What  impressed  me  was  her  concern,  which 
amounted  to  a  steadfast  determination,  to  protect  her  son- 
in-law  from  the  slightest  suspicion. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all!  What  could 
she  say  for  him?  She  couldn't  really  find  a  single  word  to 
say  for  him. 

SiRELLi.  And  I  would  like  to  know  how  anyone  could 
condone  such  violence,  such  downright  cruelty ! 

The  Butler  {appearing  again  in  the  doorway).  Beg 
pardon,  sir!     Signor  Ponza  calling. 

Signora  Sirelli.    The  man  himself,  upon  my  word ! 

{An  animated  ripple  of  surprise  and  curiosity,  not  to  say 
of  guilty  self-consciousnesSj  sweeps  over  the  company). 

Agazzi.     Did  he  ask  to  see  me? 

Butler.  He  asked  simply  if  he  might  be  received.  That 
was  all  he  said. 

Signora  Sirelli.  Oh  please,  Signor  Agazzi,  please  let 
him  come  in !  I  am  really  afraid  of  the  man ;  but  I  confess 
the  greatest  curiosity  to  have  a  close  look  at  the  monster. 

Amalia.    But  what  in  the  world  can  he  be  wanting? 

Agazzl  The  way  to  find  that  out  is  to  have  him  come 
in.     {To  the  butler)  :     Show  him  in,  please. 

( The  butler  bows  and  goes  out.  A  second  later  Ponza 
appears  J  aggressively,  in  the  doorway). 

Ponza  is  a  short,  thick  set,  dark  complexioned  man  of  a 
distinctly  unprepossessing  appearance ;  black  hair,  very  thick 
and  coming  down  low  over  his  forehead;  a  black  mustache 
upcurling  at  the  ends,  giving  his  face  a  certain  ferocity  of  ex- 
pression. He  is  dressed  entirely  in  black.  From  time  to 
time  he  draws  a  black-bordered  handkerchief  and  wipes  the 


[Act  I]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  175 

perspiration  from  his  brow.     When  he  speaks  his  eyes  are  in- 
variably  hard,  fixed,  sinister. 

Agazzi.  This  way  please,  Ponza,  come  right  in!  {intro- 
ducing him)  :  Signor  Ponza,  our  new  provincial  secretary; 
my  wife;  Signora  Sirelli;  Signora  Cini,  my  daughter  Dina. 
This  is  Signor  Sirelli;  and  here  is  Laudisi,  my  brother-in- 
law.     Please  join  our  party,  won't  you,  Ponza? 

Ponza.  So  kind  of  you!  You  will  pardon  the  intrusion. 
I  shall  disturb  you  only  a  moment,  I  hope. 

Agazzi.  You  had  some  private  business  to  discuss  with 
me? 

Ponza.  Why  yes,  but  I  could  discuss  it  right  here.  In 
fact,  perhaps  as  many  people  as  possible  should  hear  what  I 
have  to  say.  You  see  it  is  a  declaration  that  I  owe,  in  a 
certain  sense,  to  the  general  pubHc. 

Agazzi.  Oh  my  dear  Ponza,  if  it  is  that  little  matter  of 
your  mother-in-law's  not  calling  on  us,  it  is  quite  all  right; 
because  you  see  .  .  . 

Ponza.  No,  that  was  not  what  I  came  for,  Commenda- 
tore.  It  was  not  to  apologize  for  her.  Indeed  I  may  say  that 
Signora  Frola,  my  wife's  mother,  w^ould  certainly  have  left 
her  cards  with  Signora  Agazzi,  your  w^ife,  and  Signorina 
Agazzi,  your  daughter,  long  before  they  were  so  kind  as  to 
honor  her  with  their  call,  had  I  not  exerted  myself  to  the 
utmost  to  prevent  her  coming,  since  I  am  absolutely  unable 
to  consent  to  her  paying  or  receiving  visits ! 

Agazzi  (drawing  up  into  an  authoritative  attitude  and 
speaking  with  some  severity).  Why?  if  you  will  be  so  kind 
as  to  explain,  Ponza?  j 

Ponza  {with  evidences  of  increasing  excitement  in  spite 
of  his  efforts  to  preserve  his  self-control) .  I  suppose  my 
mother-in-law  has  been  talking  to  you  people  about  her 
daughter,  ray  w^ife.     Am  I  mistaken?     And  I  imagine  she 


176  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  [Act  I] 

told  you  further  that  I  have  forbidden  her  entering  my  house 
and  seeing  her  daughter  intimately. 

Amalia.  Oh  not  at  all,  not  at  all,  Signor  Ponza!  Signora 
Frola  had  only  the  nicest  things  to  say  about  you.  She  could 
not  have  spoken  of  you  with  greater  respect  and  kindness. 

DiNA.    She  seems  to  be  very  fond  of  you  indeed. 

Agazzi.  She  says  that  she  refrains  from  visiting  your 
house  of  her  own  accord,  out  of  regard  for  feelings  of  yours 
which  we  frankly  confess  we  are  unable  to  understand. 

Signora  Sirelli.  Indeed,  if  we  were  to  express  our 
honest  opinion  .  .  . 

Agazzi.  Well,  yes,  why  not  be  honest?  We  think  you 
are  extremely  harsh  with  the  woman,  extremely  harsh,  per- 
haps cruel  would  be  an  exacter  word. 

Ponza.  Yes,  that  is  what  I  thought ;  and  I  came  here  for 
the  express  purpose  of  clearing  the  matter  up.  The  condi- 
tion this  poor  woman  is  in  is  a  pitiable  one  indeed — not  less 
pitiable  than  my  own  perhaps;  because,  as  you  see,  I  am  com- 
pelled to  come  here  and  make  apologies — a  public  declaration 
— which  only  such  violence  as  has  just  been  used  upon  me 
could  ever  bring  me  to  make  in  the  world  .  .  .  {He  stops 
and  looks  about  the  room.  Then  he  says  slowly  with  em' 
jphatic  emphasis  on  the  important  syllables)  :  My  mother-in- 
law,  Signora  Frola,  is  not  in  her  right  mind !    She  is  insane . 

The  Company.  Insane!  A  lunatic!  Oh  my!  Really  I 
No !    Impossible ! 

Ponza.    And  she  has  been  insane  for  four  years. 

Signora  Sirelli.  Dear  me,  who  would  ever  have  sus- 
pected it !     She  doesn't  show  it  in  the  least. 

Agazzi.    Insane?    Are  you  sure? 

Ponza.  She  doesn't  show  it,  does  she?  But  she  is  in- 
sane, nevertheless;  and  her  delusion  consists  precisely  in  be- 
lieving that  I  am  forbidding  her  to  see  her  daughter.  {His 
face  takes  on  an  expression  of  cruel  suffering  mingled  with  a 


[Act  I]  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  177 

sort  of  ferocious  excitement).  What  daughter,  for  God's 
sake?  Why  her  daughter  died  four  years  ago!  {A  general 
sensation) . 

Everyone  at  Once.  Died?  She  is  dead?  What  do 
you  mean?    Oh,  really?     Four  years  ago?    Why!    Why! 

PoNZA.  Four  years  ago !  In  fact  it  was  the  death  of  the 
poor  girl  that  drove  her  mad. 

SiRELLi.  Are  we  to  understand  that  the  wife  with  whom 
you  are  now  living  .  .  . 

PoNZA.  Exactly!  She  is  my  second  wife.  I  married 
her  two  years  ago. 

Amalia.  And  Signora  Frola  believes  that  her  daughter 
is  still  living,  that  she  is  your  wife  still  ? 

PoNZA.  Perhaps  it  was  best  for  her  that  way.  She  was 
in^^harge  of  a  nurse  in  her  own  room,  you  see.  Well,  when 
she  chanced  to  see  me  passing  by  inadvertence  on  her  street 
one  day,  with  this  woman,  my  second  wife,  she  suddenly 
began  to  laugh  and  cry  and  tremble  all  over  in  an  extreme 
of  happiness.  She  was  sure  her  daughter,  whom  she  had 
believed  dead,  was  alive  and  well ;  and  from  a  condition  of 
desperate  despondency  which  was  the  first  form  of  her 
mental  disturbance,  she  entered  on  a  second  obsession,  be- 
lieving steadily  that  her  daughter  was  not  dead  at  all;  but 
that  I,  the  poor  girl's  husband,  am  so  completely  in  love 
with  her  tllat  I  want  her  wholly  for  myself  and  will  not 
allow  anyone  to  approach  her.  She  became  otherwise  quite 
well,  you  might  say.  Her  nervousness  disappeared.  Her 
physical  condition  improved,  and  her  powers  of  reasoning 
returned  quite  clear.  Judge  for  yourself,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men !  You  have  seen  her  and  talked  with  her.  You  would 
never  suspect  in  the  w^orld  that  she  is  crazy. 

Amalia.     Never  in  the  world!     Never! 

Signora  Sirelli.  And  the  poor  woman  says  she  is  so 
happy,  so  happy! 


178  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

PoNZA.  That  is  what  she  says  to  everybody ;  and  for  that 
matter  she  really  has  a  wealth  of  afEection  and  gratitude  for 
me;  because,  as  you  may  well  suppose,  I  do  my  very  best, 
in  spite  of  the  sacrifices  entailed,  to  keep  up  this  benefical 
illusion  in  her.  The  sacrifices  you  can  readily  understand. 
In  the  first  place  I  have  to  maintain  two  homes  on  my 
small  salary.  Then  it  is  very  hard  on  my  wife,  isn't  it? 
But  she,  poor  thing,  does  the  very  best  she  can  to  help 
me  out!  She  comes  to  the  window  when  the  old  lady  ap- 
pears. She  talks  to  her  from  the  balcony.  She  writes  letters 
to  her.  But  you  people  will  understand  that  there  are 
limits  to  what  I  can  ask  of  my  poor  wife.  Signora  Frola, 
meanwhile,  lives  practically  in  confinement.  We  have  to 
keep  a  pretty  close  watch  on  her.  We  have  to  lock  her  up, 
virtually.  Otherwise,  some  fine  day  she  would  be  walking 
right  into  my  house.  She  is  of  a  gentle,  placid  disposition 
fortunately;  but  you  understand  that  my  wife,  good  as  she 
is,  could  never  bring  herself  to  accepting  caresses  intended 
for  another  woman,  a  dead  woman!  That  would  be  a  tor- 
ment beyond  conception. 

Amalia.     Oh,  of  course!    Poor  woman!    Just  imagine! 

Signora  Sirelli.  And  the  old  lady  herself  consents  to 
being  locked  up  all  the  time? 

PoNZA.  You,  Commendatore,  will  understand  that  I 
couldn't  permit  her  calling  here  except  under  absolute  con- 
straint. 

Agazzi.  I  understand  perfectly,  my  dear  Ponza,  and 
you  have  my  deepest  sympathy. 

Ponza.  When  a  man  has  a  misfortune  like  this  fall 
upon  him  he  must  not  go  about  in  society;  but  of  course 
when,  by  complaining  to  the  prefect,  you  practically  com- 
pelled me  to  have  Signora  Frola  call,  it  was  my  duty  to 
volunteer  this  further  information ;  because,  as  a  public 
official,  and  with  due  regard  for  the  post  of  responsibility  I 


[Act  I]  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  179 

occup)',  I  could  not  allow  any  discredible  suspicions  to  re- 
main attached  tc  my  reputation.  I  could  not  have  you  good 
people  suppose  1  ^r  a  moment  that,  out  of  jealousy  or  for 
any  other  reasoi  ,  I  could  ever  prevent  a  poor  suffering 
mother  from  seeing  her  own  daughter.  {He  rises).  Again 
my  apologies  for  having  intruded  my  personal  troubles  upon 
your  party.  {He  bows).  My  compliments,  Commendatore. 
Good  afternoon,  good  afternoon!  Thank  you!  {Bowing  to 
Laudisi,  Sirelli,  and  the  others  in  turn,  he  goes  out  through 
the  door,  rear). 

Amalia  {with  a  sigh  of  sympathy  and  astonishment). 
Uhh!    Crazy!    What  do  you  think  of  that? 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  The  poor  old  thing!  But  you 
wouldn't  have  believed  it,  would  you? 

DiNA.  I  always  knew  there  was  som.ething  under  it 
all. 

SiGNORA  CiNl.     But  who  could  ever  have  guessed  .  .  . 

Agazzi.  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know!  You  could 
tell  from  the  way  she  talked  .  .  . 

Laudisi.     You  mean  to  say  that  you  thought  .  .  .  ? 

Agazzi.  No,  I  can't  say  that.  But  at  the  same  time,  if 
you  remember,  she  could  never  quite  find  her  words. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  How  could  she,  poor  thing,  out  of  her 
head  like  that? 

SiRELLi.  And  yet,  if  I  may  raise  the  question,  it  seems 
strange  to  m^e  that  an  insane  person  .  .  .  oh,  I  admit  that 
she  couldn't  really  talk  rationally  .  .  .  but  what  surprises 
me  is  her  trying  to  find  a  reason  to  explain  why  her  son-in- 
law  should  be  keeping  her  away  from  her  daughter.  This 
effort  of  hers  to  justify  it  and  then  to  adapt  herself  to 
excuses  of  her  own  invention  .  .  . 

Agazzi.  Yes,  but  that  is  only  another  proof  that  she's 
insane.  You  see,  she  kept  ofiEering  excuses  for  Ponza  that 
really  were  not  excuses  at  all. 


ISO  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  I] 

Amalia.  Yes,  that's  so.  She  would  sa;  a  thing  without 
really  saying  it,  taking  it  back  almost  in  tie  next  words. 

Agazzi.  But  there  is  one  more  thinr..  If  she  weren't 
a  downright  lunatic,  how  could  she  or  my  other  woman 
ever  accept  such  a  situation  from  a  man?  How  could  she 
ever  consent  to  talk  with  her  own  daughter  only  by  shouting 
up  from  the  bottom  of  a  well  five  stories  deep? 

SiRELLi.  But  if  I  remember  rightly  she  has  you  there! 
Notice,  she  doesn't  accept  the  situation.  She  says  she  is 
resigned  to  it.  That's  different!  No,  I  tell  you,  there  is 
still  something  funny  about  this  business.  What  do  you  say, 
Laudisi  ? 

Laudisi.    Why,  I  say  nothing,  nothing  at  all! 

The  Butler  {appearing  at  the  door  and  visibly  excited). 
Beg  pardon,  Signora  Frola  is  here  again! 

Amalia  {with  a  start).  Oh  dear  me,  again?  Do  you 
suppose  she'll  be  pestering  us  all  the  time  now? 

Signora  Sirelli.  I  understand  how  you  feel  now  that 
you  know  she's  a  lunatic. 

Signora  Cini.  My,  my,  what  do  you  suppose  she  is 
agoing  to  say  now? 

Sirelli.  For  my  part  I'd  really  like  to  hear  what  she's 
got  to  say. 

DiNA.  Oh  yes,  mamma,  don't  be  afraid!  Ponza  said  she 
was  quite  harmless.     Let's  have  her  come  in. 

Agazzai.  Of  course,  we  can't  send  her  away.  Let's 
have  her  come  in;  and,  if  she  makes  any  trouble,  why  .  .  , 
{Turning  to  the  butler)  :  Show  her  in.  {The  butler  bows 
and  withdraws). 

Amalia.  You  people  stand  by  me,  please !  Why,  I  don't 
know  what  I  am  ever  going  to  say  to  her  now! 

{Signora  Frola  appears  at  the  door.  Amalia  rises  and 
steps  forward  to  welcome  her.  The  others  look  on  in 
astonished  silence). 


[Act  I]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  181 

SiGNORA  Frola.     May  I  please  .  .  .   ? 

Amalia.  Do  come  in,  Signora  Frola,  do  come  in!  You 
know  all  these  ladies.  They  were  here  when  you  came 
before. 

Signora  Frola  {with  an  expression  of  sadness  on  her 
features,  but  still  smiling  gently).  How  you  all  look  at  me 
— and  even  you,  Signora  Agazzi !  I  am  sure  you  think  I  am 
a  lunatic,  don't  you! 

Amalia.  My  dear  Signora  Frola,  what  in  the  world 
are  you  talking  about? 

Signora  Frola.  But  I  am  sure  you  will  forgive  me  if 
I  disturb  you  for  a  moment.  {Bitterly)  :  Oh,  my  dear 
Signora  Agazzi,  I  wish  I  had  left  things  as  they  were.  It 
was  hard  to  feel  that  I  had  been  impolite  to  you  by  not 
answering  the  bell  when  you  called  that  first  time;  but  I 
could  never  have  supposed  that  you  would  come  back  and 
force  me  to  call  upon  you.  I  could  foresee  the  consequences 
of  such  a  visit  from  the  very  first. 

Amalia.  Why,  not  at  all,  not  at  all!  I  don't  under- 
stand.   Why  ? 

DiNA.     What  consequences  could  you  foresee,   madam? 

Signora  Frola.  Why,  my  son-in-law,  Signor  Ponza, 
has  just  been  here,  hasn't  he? 

Agazzi.  Why,  yes,  he  was  here!  He  came  to  discuss 
certain  office  matters  with  me  .  .  .just  ordinary  business, 
you  understand! 

Signora  Frola  {visibly  hurt  and  quite  dismayed).  Oh, 
I  know  you  are  saying  that  just  to  spare  me,  just  in  order 
not  to  hurt  my  feelings. 

Agazzi.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all !  That  was  really  why  he 
came. 

Signora  Frola  {with  some  alarm).  But  he  was  quite 
calm,  I  hope,  quite  calm? 


182  RIGHT   YOU  AHE!  [Act  I] 

Agazzi.  Calm?  As  calm  as  could  be!  Why  not?  Of 
course ! 

{The  members  of  the  company  all  nod  in  confirmation) . 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Oh,  my  dear  friends,  I  am  sure  you 
are  trying  to  reassure  me;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  came  to 
set  you  right  about  my  son-in-law. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.     Why  no,  Signora,  what's  the  trouble? 

Agazzi.  Really,  it  was  just  a  matter  of  politics  we 
talked  about  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  Frola.  But  I  can  tell  from  the  way  you  all 
look  at  me  .  .  .  Please  excuse  me,  but  it  is  not  a  question 
of  me  at  all.  From  the  way  you  all  look  at  me  I  can  tell 
that  he  came  here  to  prove  something  that  I  would  never 
have  confessed  for  all  the  money  in  the  world.  You  will  all 
bear  me  out,  won't  you  ?  When  I  came  here  a  few  moments 
ago  you  all  asked  me  questions  that  were  very  cruel  questions 
to  me,  as  I  hope  you  will  understand.  And  they  were  ques- 
tions that  I  couldn't  answer  very  well;  but  anyhow  I  gave 
an  explanation  of  our  manner  of  living  vvhich  can  be  satis- 
factory to  nobody,  I  am  well  aware.  But  how  could  I  give 
you  the  real  reason?  How  could  I  tell  you  people,  as  he's 
doing,  that  my  daughter  has  been  dead  for  four  years  and 
that  I'm  a  poor,  insane  mother  who  believes  that  her  daughter 
is  still  living  and  that  her  husband  will  not  allow  me  to  see 
her? 

Agazzi  (quite  upset  by  the  ring  of  deep  sincerity  he  finds 
in  Signora  Froh^s  manner  of  speaking).  What  do  you 
mean,  your  daughter? 

Signora  Frola  (hastily  and  with  anguished  dismay 
written  on  her  features).  You  know  that's  so.  Why  do  you 
try  to  deny  it  ?   He  did  say  that  to  you,  didn't  he  ? 

Sirelli  (with  some  hesitation  and  studying  her  features 
warily).   Yes  ...  in  fact  ...  he  did  say  that. 

Signora  Frola.     I  know  he  did;  and  I  also  know  how 


[Act  I]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  183 

it  pained  him  to  be  obliged  to  say  such  a  thing  of  me.  It  is 
a  great  pity,  Commendatore!  We  have  made  continual 
sacrifices,  involving  unheard  of  suffering,  I  assure  you;  and 
we  could  endure  them  only  by  living  as  we  are  living  now. 
Unfortunately,  as  I  well  understand,  it  must  look  very 
strange  to  people,  seem  even  scandalous,  arouse  no  end  of 
gossip !  But  after  all,  if  he  is  an  excellent  secretary,  scrupu- 
lously honest,  attentive  to  his  work,  why  should  people  com- 
plain? You  have  seen  him  in  the  office,  haven't  you?  He  is 
a  good  worker,  isn't  he? 

Agazzi.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  not  watched  him 
particularly,  as  yet. 

SiGNORA  Fro  LA.  Oh  he  really  is,  he  really  is!  All  the 
men  he  ever  worked  for  say  he's  most  reliable ;  and  I  beg  of 
you,  please  don't  let  this  other  matter  interfere.  And  why 
then  should  people  go  tormenting  him  with  all  this  prying 
into  his  private  life,  laying  bare  once  more  a  misfortune 
which  he  has  succeeded  in  mastering  and  which,  if  it  were 
widely  talked  about,  might  upset  him  again  personally,  and 
even  hurt  him  in  his  career  ? 

Agazzi.  Oh  no,  no,  Signora,  no  one  is  trying  to  hurt 
him.  It  is  nothing  to  his  disgrace  that  I  can  see.  Nor  would 
we  hurt  you  either. 

Signora  Frola.  But  my  dear  sir,  how  can  you  help 
hurting  me  when  you  force  him  to  give  almost  publicly  an 
explanation  which  is  quite  absurd — ridiculous  I  might  even 
say!  Surely  people  like  you  can't  seriously  believe  what  he 
says?  You  can't  possibly  be  taking  me  for  a  lunatic?  You 
don't  really  think  that  this  woman  is  his  second  wife?  And 
yet  it  is  all  so  necessary!  He  needs  to  have  it  that  way.  It 
is  the  only  way  he  can  pull  himself  together ;  get  down  to  his 
work  again  .  .  .  the  only  way  .  .  .  the  only  way !  Why  he 
gets  all  wrought  up,  all  excited,  when  he  is  forced  to  talk  of 


184  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  [Act  I] 

this  other  matter;  because  he  knows  himself  how  hard  it  is 
for  him  to  say  certain  things.  You  may  have  noticed  it  .  .  . 
,  Agazzi.  Yes,  that  is  quite  true.  He  did  seem  very  much 
excited. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.     Well,  well,  well,  so  then  it's  he! 

SiRELLi   {triumphantly) .    I  always  said  it  was  he. 

Agazzi.  Oh,  I  say!  Is  that  really  possible?  {He  motions 
to  the  company  to  be  quiet)  ^ 

SiGNORA  Frola  {joining  her  hqnds  beseechingly).  My 
dear  friends,  what  are  you  really  thinking?  It  is  only  on  this 
subject  that  he  is  a  little  queer.  The  point  is,  you  must 
simply  not  mention  this  particular  matter  to  him.  Why, 
really  now,  you  could  never  suppose  that  I  would  leave  m> 
daughter  shut  up  with  him  all  alone  like  that?  And  yet 
just  watch  him  at  his  work  and  in  the  office.  He  does  every- 
thing he  is  expected  to  do  and  no  one  in  the  world  could  do 
it  better. 

Agazzi.  But  this  is  not  enough,  madam,  as  you  will 
understand.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Signor  Ponza,  your 
son-in-law,  came  here  and  made  up  a  story  out  of  whole 
cloth? 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Yes,  sir,  yes  sir,  exactly  .  .  .  only  I 
will  explain.  You  must  understand — you  must  look  at  things 
from  his  point  of   view. 

Agazzi.  What  do  you  mean?  Do  you  mean  that  your 
daughter  is  not  dead? 

SiGNORA  Frola.  God  forbid!  Of  course  she  is  not 
dead! 

Agazzi.     Well,  then,  he  is  the  lunatic! 

SiGNORA  Frola.     No,  no,  look,  look!  .  .    . 

SiRELLi.     I  always  said  it  w^as  he!  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  Frola.  No,  look,  look,  not  that,  not  that !  Let 
me  explain  .  .  .  You  have  noticed  him,  haven't  you  ?  Fine, 
strong  looking  man.    Well,  when  he  married  my  daughter 


[Act  I]  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  185 

you  can  imagine  how  fond  he  was  of  her.  But  alas,  she  fell 
«ick  with  a  contagious  disease;  and  the  doctors  had  to 
separate  her  from  him.  Not  only  from  him,  of  course,  but 
from  all  her  relatives.  They're  all  dead  now,  poor  things, 
in  the  earthquake,  you  understand.  Well,  he  just  refused 
to  hove  her  taken  to  the  hospital;  and  he  got  so  over-wrought 
that  they  actually  had  to  put  him  under  restraint;  and  he 
broke  down  nervously  as  the  result  of  it  all  and  he  was  sent 
to  a  sanatorium.  But  my  daughter  got  better  very  soon, 
while  he  got  worse  and  worse.  'He  had  a  sort  of  obsession 
that  his  wife  had  died  in  the  hospital,  that  perhaps  they  had 
killed  her  there;  and  you  couldn't  get  that  idea  out  of  his 
head. 

Just  imagine  when  we  brought  my  daughter  back  to  him 
quite  recovered  from  her  illness — and  a  pretty  thing  she  was 
to  look  at,  too — he  began  to  scream  and  say,  no,  no,  no,  she 
wasn't  his  wife,  his  wife  was  dead!  He  looked  at  her:  No, 
no,  no,  not  at  all!  She  wasn't  the  woman!  Imagine  my 
dear  friends,  how  terrible  it  all  was.  Finally  he  came 
up  close  to  her  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  that  he  was 
going  to  recognize  her  again ;  but  once  more  it  was  "No,  no, 
no,  she  is  not  my  wife!"  And  do  you  know,  to  get  him  to 
accept  my  daughter  at  all  again,  we  were  obliged  to  pretend 
having  a  second  wedding,  with  the  collusion  of  his  doctors 
and  his  friends,  you  understand! 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.     Ah,  SO  that  is  why  he  says  that  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Yes,  but  he  doesn't  really  believe  it, 
you  know ;  and  he  hasn't  for  a  long  time,  I  am  sure.  But  he 
seems  to  feel  a  need  for  maintaining  the  pretense.  He  can't 
do  without  it.  He  feels  surer  of  himself  that  way.  He  is 
seized  with  a  terrible  fear,  from  time  to  time,  that  this  little 
wife  he  loves  may  be  taken  from  him  again.  {Smiiing  and 
in  a  low,  confidential  tone)  :  So  he  keeps  her  locked  up  at 
home  where  he  can  have  her  all  for  himself.    But  he  wor- 


186  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  [Act  I] 

ships  her — he  worships  her;  and  I  am  really  quite  convinced 
that  my  daughter  is  one  of  the  happiest  women  in  the  world. 
{She  gets  up).  And  now  I  must  be  going.  You  see,  my 
son-in-law  is  in  a  terrible  state  of  mind  at  present.  I 
wouldn't  like  to  have  him  call,  and  find  me  not  at  home. 
{With  a  sigh,  and  gesturing  with  her  joined  hands)  :  Well, 
I  suppose  we  must  get  along  as  best  we  can ;  but  it  is  hard 
on  my  poor  girl.  She  has  to  pretend  all  along  that  she  is 
not  herself,  but  another,  his  second  wife;  and  I  .  .  .  oh, 
as  for  me,  I  have  to  pretend  that  I  am  a  lunatic  when  he's 
around,  my  dear  friends;  but  I'm  glad  to,  I'm  glad  to,  really, 
so  long  as  it  does  him  some  good.  {The  ladies  rise  as  she 
steps  nearer  to  the  door).  No,  no,  don't  let  me  interrupt 
your  party.  I  know  the  way  out!  Good  afternoon!  Good 
afternoon ! 

{Bowing  and  smiling ,  she  goes  out  through  the  rear  door. 
The  others  stands  there  in  silence,  looking  at  each  other  with 
blank  astonishment  on  their  faces). 

Laudisi  {coming  forward).  So  you  want  the  truth,  eh? 
The  truth!  The  truth!  Hah!  hah!  hah!  hah!  hah!  hah! 
hah! 

Curtain. 


ACT 


Tjr^ 


Councillor  Agazzi's  study  in  the  same  house.  Antique 
furnishings  with  old  paintings  on  the  walls.  A  portiere 
over  the  rear  entrance  and  over  the  door  to  the  left  which 
opens  into  the  draiving  room  shown  in  the  first  act.  To  the 
right  a  substantial  fireplace  with  a  big  mirror  above  the 
mantel.  A  fiat  top  desk  with  a  telephone.  A  sofa,  armchairs, 
straight  back  chairs,  etc. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Agazzi  is  shown  standing  beside  his 
desk  with  the  telephone  receiver  pressed  to  his  ear.  Laudisi 
and  Sirelli  sit  looking  at  him  expectantly. 

Agazzi.  Yes,  I  want  Centuri.  Hello  .  .  .  hello  .  .  . 
Centuri?  Yes,  Agazzi  speaking.  That  you,  Centuri?  It's 
me,  Agazzi.  Well?  {He  listens  for  some  time).  What's 
that?  Really?  (Again  he  listens  at  length).  I  understand, 
but  you  might  go  at  the  matter  with  a  little  more  speed  .  .  . 
{Another  long  pause).  Well,  I  give  up!  How  can  that  pos- 
sibly be?  {A  pause).  Oh,  I  see,  I  see  .  .  .  {Another 
pause).  Well,  never  mind,  I'll  look  into  it  myself.  Good- 
bye, Centuri,  goodbye!  {He  lays  down  the  receiver  and 
steps  fonrard  on  the  stage). 

Sirelli   {eagerly).    Well? 

Agazzi.     Nothing!     Absolutely  nothing! 

SirelLI.     Nothing  at  all? 

Agazzi.  You  see  the  whole  blamed  village  was  wiped 
out.  Not  a  house  left  standing!  In  the  collapse  of  the  town 
hall,  followed  by  a  fire,  all  the  records  of  the  place  seem  to 
have  been  lost — births,  deaths,  marriages,  everything. 

Sirelli.  But  not  everybody  was  killed.  They  ought  to 
be  able  to  find  somebody  who  knows  them. 

187 


188  RIGHT    YOU  ARE!  [Act    I] 

Agazzi.  Yes,  but  you  see  they  didn't  rebuild  the  plice. 
Everybody  moved  away,  and  no  record  was  ever  kept  of  the 
people,  of  course.  So  far  they  have  found  nobody  who  knows 
the  Ponzas.  To  be  sure,  if  the  police  really  went  at  it,  they 
might  find  somebody;  but  it  would  be  a  tough  job. 

SiRELLi.  So  we  can't  get  anywhere  along  that  line!  We 
have  got  to  take  what  they  say  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

Agazzi.     That,  unfortunately,  is  the  situation. 

Laudisi  {rising).  Well,  you  fellows  take  a  piece  of  advice 
from  me:  believe  them  both! 

Agazzi.     What  do  you  mean — ''believe  them  both"  ?  .  .  . 

SiRELLi.  But  if  she  says  one  thing,  and  he  says  an- 
other .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Well,  in  that  case,  you  needn't  believe  either 
of  them! 

SiRELLi.  Oh,  you're  just  joking.  We  may  not  be  able 
to  verify  the  stories;  but  that  doesn't  prove  that  either  one 
or  the  other  m.ay  not  be  telling  the  truth.  Some  document 
or  other  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Oh,  documents !  Documents !  Suppose  you  had 
them?   What  good  would  they  do  you? 

Agazzi.  Oh,  I  say!  Perhaps  we  can't  get  them  now, 
but  there  were  such  documents  once.  If  the  old  lady  is  the 
lunatic,  there  was,  as  there  still  may  be  somew^here,  the  death 
certificate  of  the  daughter.  Or  look  at  it  from  the  other 
angle:  if  we  found  all  the  records,  and  the  death  certificate 
were  not  there  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  never  existed, 
why  then,  it's  Ponza,  the  son-in-law.  He  would  be  the 
lunatic. 

SiRELLl.  You  mean  to  say  you  wouldn't  give  in  if  we 
stuck  that  certificate  under  your  nose  to-morrow  or  the  next 
day?   Would  you  still  deny  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Deny?  Why  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  I'm  not  denying 
anything!    In  fact,  I'm  very  careful  not  to  be  denying  any- 


[Act  II]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  189 

thing.  You're  the  people  who  are  looking  up  the  records  to 
be  able  to  affirm  or  deny  something.  Personally,  I  don't 
give  a  rap  for  the  documents ;  for  the  truth  in  my  eyes  is  not 
a  matter  of  black  and  white,  but  a  matter  of  those  two  people. 
And  into  their  minds  I  can  penetrate  only  through  what  they 
say  to  me  of  themselves. 

SiRELLi.  Very  well — She  says  he's  crazy  and  he  says 
she's  crazy.  Now  one  of  them  must  be  crazy.  You  can't  get 
away  from  that.   Well  w^hich  is  it,  she  or  he? 

Agazzi.     There,  that's  the  way  to  put  it! 

Laudisi.  But  just  observe;  in  the  first  place,  it  isn't  true 
that  they  are  accusing  each  other  of  insanity.  Ponza,  to  be 
sure,  says  his  mother-in-law  is  insane.  She  denies  this,  not 
only  of  herself,  but  also  of  him.  At  the  most,  she  says  that  he 
was  a  little  off  once,  when  they  took  her  daughter  from  him ; 
but  that  now  he  is  quite  all  right. 

SiRELLi.  I  see!  So  you're  rather  inclined,  as  I  am,  to 
trust  what  the  old  lady  says. 

Agazzi.  The  fact  is,  indeed,  that  if  you  accept  his  story, 
all  the  facts  in  the  case  are  explained. 

Laudisi.  But  all  the  facts  in  the  case  are  explained  if 
you  take  her  story,  aren't  they? 

SiRELLi.  Oh,  nonsense!  In  that  case  neither  of  them 
would  be  crazy !    Why,  one  of  them  must  be,  damn  it  all ! 

Laudisi.  Well,  which  one?  You  can't  tell,  can  you? 
Neither  can  anybody  else!  And  it  is  not  because  those  docu- 
ments you  are  looking  for  have  been  destroyed  in  an  accident 
— a  fire,  an  earthquake — what  you  will;  but  because  those 
people  have  concealed  those  documents  in  themselves,  in 
their  own  souls.  Can't  you  understand  that  ?  She  has  created 
for  him,  or  he  for  her,  a  w^orld  of  fancy  which  has  all  the 
earmarks  of  reality  itself.  And  in  this  fictitious  realit}^  they 
get  along  perfectly  well,  and  in  full  accord  with  each  other ; 
and  this  world  of  fancy,  this  reality  of  theirs,  no  document 


190  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  II] 

can  possibly  destroy  because  the  air  they  breathe  is  of  that 
world.  For  them  it  is  something  they  can  see  with  their 
eyes,  hear  with  their  ears,  and  touch  with  their  fingers.  Oh, 
I  grant  you — if  you  could  get  a  death  certificate  or  a  mar- 
riage certificate  or  something  of  the  kind,  you  might  be  able 
to  satisfy  that  stupid  curiosity  of  yours.  Unfortunately,  you 
can't  get  it.  And  the  result  is  that  you  are  in  the  extraor- 
dinary fix  of  having  before  you,  on  the  one  hand,  a  world  of 
fancy,  and  on  the  other,  a  world  of  reality,  and  you,  for  the 
life  of  you,  are  not  able  to  distinguish  one  from  the  other. 

Agazzi.  Philosophy,  my  dear  boy,  philosophy!  And  I 
have  no  use  for  philosophy.  Give  me  facts,  if  you  please! 
Facts!  So,  I  say,  keep  at  it;  and  I'll  bet  you  we  get  to  the 
bottom  of  it  sooner  or  later. 

SiRELLi.  First  we  got  her  story  and  rhen  we  got  his ;  and 
then  we  got  a  new  one  from  her.  Let's  bring  the  two  of  them 
together — and  you  think  that  then  we  won't  be  able  to  tell 
the  false  from  the  true? 

Laudisi.  Well,  bring  them  together  if  you  want  to! 
All  I  ask  is  permission  to  laugh  when  you're  through. 

Agazzi.  Well,  we'll  let  you  laugh  all  you  want.  In  the 
meantime  let's  see  .  .  .  {He  steps  to  the  door  at  the  left  and 
calls)  :  Amalia,  Signora  Sirelli,  won't  you  come  in  here  a 
moment? 

{The  ladies  enter  with  Dina). 

Signora  Sirellli  (catching  sight  of  Laudisi  and  shaking 
a  finger  at  him).  But  how  is  it  a  man  like  you,  in  the 
presence  of  such  an  extraordinary  situation,  can  escape  the 
curiosity  we  all  feel  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  mystery? 
Why,  I  lie  awake  nights  thinking  of  it! 

Agazzi.  As  your  husband  says,  that  man's  impossible! 
Don't  bother  about  him,  Signora  Sirelli. 

Laudisi.  No,  don't  bother  with  me;  you  just  listen  to 
Agazzi !    He'll  keep  you  from  lying  awake  tonight. 


[Act  II]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  191 

Agazzi.  Look  here,  ladies.  This  is  what  I  want — I  have 
an  idea:  won't  you  just  step  across  the  hall  to  Signora 
Frola's  ? 

Amalia.     But  will  she  come  to  the  door? 

Agazzi.     Oh,  I  imagine  she  will! 

DiNA.     We're  just  returning  the  call,  you  see  .  .  . 

Amalia.  But  didn't  he  ask  us  not  to  call  on  his  mother- 
in-law?    Hasn't  he  forbidden  her  to  receive  visits? 

SiRELLi.  No,  not  exactly!  That's  how  he  explained  what 
had  happened;  but  at  that  time  nothing  was  known.  Now 
that  the  old  lady,  through  force  of  circumstance,  has  spoken, 
giving  her  version  at  least  of  her  strange  conduct,  I  should 
think  that  .  .  . 

Signora  Sirelli.  I  have  a  feeling  that  she'll  be  awfully 
glad  to  see  us,  if  for  nothing  else,  for  the  chance  of  talking 
about  her  daughter. 

DiNA.  And  she  really  is  a  jolly  old  lady.  There  is  no 
doubt  in  my  mind,  not  the  slightest:    Ponza  is  the  lunatic! 

Agazzi.  Now,  let's  not  go  too  fast.  You  just  listen  to 
me  {he  looks  at  his'  wife)  :  don't  stay  too  long — five  or  ten 
minutes  at  the  outside! 

Sirelli  (to  his  wife).  And  for  heaven's  sake,  keep  your 
mouth  shut! 

Signora  Sirelli.  And  why  such  considerate  advice  to 
me? 

Sirelli.     Once  you  get  going  .  .  . 

DiNA  (with  the  idea  of  preventing  a  scene).  Oh,  we  are 
not  going  to  stay  very  long,  ten  minutes — fifteen,  at  the 
outside.    I'll  see  that  no  breaks  are  made. 

Agazzi.  And  I'll  just  drop  around  to  the  office,  and  be 
back  at  eleven  o'clock — ten  or  twenty  minutes  at  the  most. 

Sirelli.     And  what  can  I  do? 

Agazzi.     Wait!    {Turning  to  the  ladies).    Now,  here's 


192  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  [Act  II] 

the  plan!  You  people  invent  some  excuse  or  other  so  as  to 
get  Signora  Frola  in  here. 

Amalia.     What?    How  can  we  possibly  do  that? 

Agazzi.  Oh,  find  some  excuse!  You'll  think  of  some- 
thing in  the  course  of  your  talk;  and  if  you  don't,  there's 
Dina  and  Signora  Sirelli.  But  when  you  come  back,  you 
understand,  go  into  the  drawing  room.  {He  steps  to  the 
door  on  the  left,  makes  sure  that  it  is  wide  open,  and  draws 
aside  the  portiere).  This  door  must  stay  open,  wide  open, 
so  that  we  can  hear  you  talking  from  in  here.  Now,  here  are 
some  papers  that  I  ought  to  take  with  me  to  the  office.  How- 
ever, I  forget  them  here.  It  is  a  brief  that  requires  Ponza's 
immediate  personal  attention.  So  then,  I  forget  it.  And 
when  I  get  to  the  office  I  have  to  bring  him  back  here  to  find 
them — See  ? 

Sirelli.  But  just  a  moment.  Where  do  I  come  in? 
When  am  I  expected  to  appear? 

Agazzl  Oh,  yes!  ...  A  moment  or  two  after  eleven, 
when  the  ladies  are  again  in  the  drawing  room,  and  I  am 
back  here,  you  just  drop  in — to  take  your  wife  home,  see? 
You  ring  the  bell  and  ask  for  me,  and  I'll  have  you  brought 
in  here.  Then  I'll  invite  the  whole  crowd  in!  That's  natural 
enough,  isn't  it? — into  my  office?  .  .  . 

Laudisi  {interrupting) .  And  we'll  have  the  Truth,  the 
whole  Truth  with  a  capital  T! 

Dina.  But  look,  Nunky,  of  course  we'll  have  the  truth 
— once  we  get  them  together  face  to  face — capital  T  and  all! 

Agazzi.  Don't  get  into  an  argument  with  that  man. 
Besides,  it's  time  you  ladies  were  going.  None  of  us  has  any 
too  much  leeway. 

Signora  Sirelli.  Come,  Amalia,  come  Dina!  And  as 
for  you,  sir  {turning  to  Laudisi) y  I  won't  even  shake  hands 
with  you. 

Laudisi.     Permit  me  to  do  it  for  you,  madam.    {He  shakes 


[Act  II]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  193 

one  hand  with  the  other).  Good  luck  to  you,  my  dear 
ladies. 

{Exit  Dindj  Amalia,  Signora  Sirelli) . 

Agazzi  {to  Sirelli).  And  now  we'd  better  go,  too.  Sup- 
pose we  hurry! 

Sirelli.     Yes,  right  away.    Goodbye,  Lamberto! 

Laudisi.  Goodbye,  good  luck,  good  luck!  {Agazzi  and 
Sirelli  leave.  Laudisi,  left  alone,  walks  up  and  down  the  study 
a  number  of  times,  nodding  his  head  and  occasionally  smil- 
ing. Finally  he  draws  up  in  front  of  the  big  mirror  that  is 
hanging  over  the  mantelpiece.  He  sees  himself  in  the  glass, 
stops,  and  addresses  his  image). 

Laudisi.  So  there  you  are!  {He  bows  to  himself  and 
salutes,  touching  his  forehead  with  his  fingers).  I  say,  old 
man,  who  is  the  lunatic,  you  or  I?  {He  levels  a  finger 
menacingly  at  his  image  in  the  glass;  and,  of  course,  the:, 
image  in  turn  levels  a  finger  at  him.  As  he  smiles,  his  image 
smiles).  Of  course,  I  understand!  I  say  it's  you,  and  you 
say  it's  me.  You — you  are  the  lunatic !  No  ?  It's  me  ?  Very 
well!  It's  me!  Have  it  your  way.  Between  you  and  me, 
w^e  get  along  very  well,  don't  we !  But  the  trouble  is,  others 
don't  think  of  you  just  as  I  do;  and  that  being  the  case,  old 
man,  what  a  fix  you're  in !  As  for  me,  I  say  that  here,  right 
in  front  of  you,  I  can  see  myself  with  my  eyes  and  touch 
myself  with  my  fingers.  But  what  are  you  for  other  people? 
What  are  you  in  their  eyes?  An  image,  my  dear  sir,  just  an 
image  in  the  glass!  "What  fools  these  mortals  be!"  as  old 
Shakespeare  said.  They're  all  carrying  just  such  a  phantom 
around  inside  themselves,  and  here  they  are  racking  their 
brains  about  the  phantoms  in  other  people;  and  they  think 
all  that  is  quite  another  thing! 

( The  butler  has  entered  the  room  in  time  to  catch  Laudisi 
gesticulating  at  himself  in  the  glass.  He  wonders  if  the  man 
is  crazy.   Finally  he  speaks  up)  : 


194  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  II] 

Butler.    Ahem!  .  .  .  Signor  Laudisi,  if  you  please  .  .  . 

Laudisi  {coming  to  himself).      CJff! 

Butler.  Two  ladies  calling,  sir!  Signora  Cini  and  an- 
other lady ! 

Laudisi.     Calling  to  see  me? 

Butler.  Really,  they  asked  for  the  signora;  but  I  saiA 
that  she  was  out — on  a  call  next  door ;  and  then  .  .  . 

Laudisi.     Well,  w^hat  then? 

Butler.  They  looked  at  each  other  and  said,  "Really! 
Really!"  and  finally  they  asked  me  if  anybody  else  was  at 
home. 

Laudisi.  And  of  course  you  said  that  everyone  was 
out! 

Butler.     I  said  that  you  were  in! 

Laudisi.  Why,  not  at  all!  I'm  miles  and  miles  away! 
Perhaps  that  fellow  they  call  Laudisi  is  here ! 

Butler.     I  don't  understand,  sir. 

Laudisi.  Why?  You  think  the  Laudisi  they  know  is 
the  Laudisi  I  am? 

Butler.     I  don't  understand,  sir. 

Laudisi.     Whom  are  you  talking  to? 

Butler.  Who  am  I  talking  to?  I  thought  I  was  talking 
to  you. 

Laudisi.  Are  you  really  sure  the  Laudisi  you  are  talking 
to  is  the  Laudisi  the  ladies  want  to  see? 

Butler.  Why,  I  think  so,  sir.  They  said  they  were  look- 
ing for  the  brother  of  Signora  Agazzi. 

Laudisi.  Ah,  in  that  case  you  are  right!  {Turning  to 
the  image  in  the  glass)  :  You  are  not  the  brother  of  Signora 
Agazzi?  No,  it's  me!  {To  the  butler):  Right  you  are! 
Tell  them  I  am  in.  And  show  them  in  here,  won't  you? 
{The  butler  retires). 

Signora  Cini.     May  I  come  in 

Laudisi.     Please,  please,  this  way,  madam! 


[Act  II]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  195 

SiGNORA  CiNl.  I  was  told  SIgnora  Agazzi  was  not  at 
home,  and  I  brought  Signora  Nenni  along.  Signora  Nenni 
is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  she  was  most  anxious  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  .  .  . 

Laudisi.     ...  of  Signora  Frola? 

Signora  Cixi.     Of  Signora  Agazzi,  your  sister ! 

Laudisi.  Oh,  she  will  be  back  very  soon,  and  Signora 
Frola  will  be  here,  too. 

Signora  Cini.    Yes,  we  thought  as  much. 

Signora  Nenni  is  an  oldish  woman  of  the  type  of  Signora 
Cini,  but  with  the  mannerisms  of  the  latter  somewhat  more 
pronounced.  She,  too,  is  a  bundle  of  concentrated  curiosity, 
but  of  the  sly,  cautious  type,  ready  to  find  something  fright- 
ful under  everything. 

Laudisi.  Well,  it's  all  planned  in  advance!  It  will  be  a 
most  interesting  scene!   The  curtain  rises  at  eleven,  precisely! 

Signora  Cini.  Planned  in  advance?  What  is  planned 
in  advance? 

Laudisi  {mysteriously,  first  with  a  gesture  of  his  finger 
and  then  aloud).  Why,  bringing  the  two  of  them  together! 
(A  gesture  of  admiration)  :    Great  idea,  I  tell  you! 

Signora  Cini.     The  two  of  them — together — who? 

Laudisi.  Why,  the  two  of  them.  He — in  here!  {Point- 
ing  to  the  room  about  him). 

Signora  Cini.     Ponza,  you  mean? 

Laudisi.  And  she — in  there!  {He  points  toward  the 
drawing  roorn) . 

Signora  Cini.     Signora  Frola? 

Laudisi.  Exactly!  {With  an  expressive  gesture  of  his 
hands  and  even  more  mysteriously)  :  But  afterwards,  all  of 
them — in  here!    Oh,  a  great  idea,  a  great  idea! 

Signora  Cini.     In  order  to  get  .  .  . 

Laudisi.     The  truth!    Precisely:    the  truth! 

Signora  Cini.     But  the  truth  is  known  already! 


196  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  [Act  II] 

Laudisi.  Of  course!  The  only  question  is  stripping  it 
bare,  so  that  everyone  can  see  It! 

SiGNORA  CiNl  {with  the  greatest  surprise).  Oh,  really? 
So  they  know  the  truth!   And  which  is  it — He  or  she? 

Laudisi.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  .  .  .  you  just  guess!  Who 
do  you  think  it  is? 

SiGNORA  CiNi  {ahemming) .  Well  ...  I  say  .  .  . 
really  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Is  It  she  or  is  it  he?  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you  don't  know!   Come  now,  give  a  guess! 

SiGNORA  CiNl.  Why,  for  my  part  I  should  say  .  .  . 
well,  I'd  say  ....  it's  he. 

Laudisi  {looks  at  her  admiringly) .  Right  you  are!  It 
is  he! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  Really?  I  always  thought  so!  Of  course, 
it  was  perfectly  plain  all  along.    It  had  to  be  he ! 

SiGNORA  Nenni.  All  of  US  womcn  in  town  said  It  was 
he.  We  always  said  so! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  But  how  did  you  get  at  it?  I  suppose 
Signor  AgazzI  ran  down  the  documents,  didn't  he — the  birth 
certificate,   or  something? 

SiGNORA  Nenni.  Through  the  prefect,  of  course!  There 
was  no  getting  away  from  those  people.  Once  the  police 
start  investigating  .  .  .  ! 

Laudisi  {motions  to  them  to  come  closer  to  him;  then  in 
a  low  voice  and  in  the  same  mysterious  manner,  and  stressing 
each  syllable).     The  certificate! — Of  the  second  marriage! 

SiGNORA  CiNl  {starting 'back  with  astonishment).   What? 

SiGNORA  Nenni  {likeivise  taken  aback).  What  did  you 
say?  The  second  marriage? 

SiGNORA  Cini.     Well,  In  that  case  he  was  right. 

Laudisi.  Oh,  documents,  ladies,  documents!  This  cer- 
tificate of  the  second  marriage,  so  it  seems,  talks  as  plain  as 
day. 


1 


[Act  II]  RIGHT    YOU  ARE!  197> 

SiGNORA  Nenni.     Well,  then,  she  is  the  lunatic. 

Laudisi.     Right  you  are !     She  it  is ! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.     But  I  thought  you  said  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Yes,  I  did  say  .  .  .  but  this  certificate  of  the 
second  marriage  may  very  well  be,  as  Signora  Frola  said,  a 
fictitious  document,  gotten  up  through  the  influence  of  Pon- 
za's  doctors  and  friends  to  pamper  him  in  the  notion  that 
his  wife  was  not  his  first  wife,  but  another  woman. 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  But  it's  a  public  document.  You  mean 
to  say  a  public  document  can  be  a  fraud? 

Laudisi.  I  mean  to  say — well,  it  has  just  the  value  that 
each  of  you  chooses  to  give  it.  For  instance,  one  could  find 
somewhere,  possibly,  those  letters  that  Signora  Frola  said 
she  gets  from  her  daughter,  who  lets  tliem  down  in  the 
basket  in  the  courtyard.   There  are  such  letters,  aren't  there  ? 

SiGNORA  CiNi.     Yes,  of  course! 

Laudisi.  They  are  documents,  aren't  they?  Aren't 
letters  documents?  But  it  all  depends  on  how  you  read  them. 
Here  comes  Ponza,  and  he  says  they  are  just  made  up  to 
pamper  his  mother-in-law  in  her  obsession  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  Oh,  dear,  dear,  so  then  we're  never  sure 
about  anything? 

Laudisi.  Never  sure  about  anything?  Why  not  at  all, 
not  at  all!  Let's  be  exact.  We  are  sure  of  many  things, 
aren't  we?  How  many  days  are  there  in  the  week?  Seven 
— Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday  .  .  .  How  many 
months  in  the  year  are  there?  Twelve:  January,  February, 
March  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  Oh,  I  see,  you're  just  joking!  You're 
just  joking!  {Dina  appears,  breathless,  in  the  doorway,  at 
the  rear). 

DiNA.  Oh,  Nunky,  w^on't  you  please  .  .  .  {She  stops  at 
the  sight  of  Signora  Cini) .    Oh,  Signora  Cini,  you  here? 

SiGNORA  Cini.     Why,  I  just  came  to  make  a  call!  .  .  . 


198  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  [Act  II] 

Laudisi.     .  .  .  with  Slgnora  Cenni. 

SiGNORA  Nenni.     No,  my  name  is  Nenni. 

Laudisi.  Oh  yes,  pardon  me!  She  was  anxious  to  make 
Signora  Frola's  acquaintance  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  Nenni.     Why,  not  at  all! 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  He  has  just  been  making  fun  of  us!  You 
ought  to  see  what  fools  he  made  of  us ! 

DiNA.  Oh,  he's  perfectly  insufferable,  even  with  mamma 
and  me.  Will  you  excuse  me  for  just  a  moment?  No,  every- 
thing is  all  right.  I'll  just  run  back  and  tell  mamma  that 
you  people  are  here  and  I  think  that  will  be  enough.  Oh, 
Nunky,  if  you  had  only  heard  her  talk !  Why,  she  is  a  perfect 
dear  J  and  what  a  good,  kind  soul!  .  .  .  She  showed  us  all 
those  letters  her  daughter  wrote  .  .  . 

SiGNORA  CiNi.  Yes,  but  as  Signor  Laudisi  was  just  say- 
ing ..  . 

DiNA.     He  hasn't  even  seen  them! 

SiGNORA  Nenni.  You  mean  they  are  not  really  fic- 
titious ? 

DiNA.  Fictitious  nothing!  They  talk  as  plain  as  day. 
And  such  things!  You  can't  fool  a  mother  when  her  own 
daughter  talks  to  her.  And  you  know — the  letter  she  got 
yesterday!  .  .  .  {She  stops  at  the  sound  of  voices  corning 
into  the  study  from  the  drawing  room).  Oh,  here  they  are, 
here  they  are,  already!  {She  goes  to  the  door  and  peeps  into 
the  room) . 

SiGNORA  CiNl  {.following  her  to  the  door).  Is  she  there, 
too? 

DiNA.  Yes,  but  you  had  better  come  into  the  other  room. 
All  of  us  women  must  be  in  the  drawing  room.  And  it  is 
just  eleven  o'clock,  Nunky! 

Amalia  {entering  with  decision  from  the  door  on  the 
left).  I  think  this  whole  business  is  quite  unnecessary!  We 
have  absolutely  no  further  need  of  proofs  .  .  . 


[Act  II]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE/  199 

DiNA.  Quite  so!  I  thought  of  that  myself.  Why  bring 
Ponza  here? 

Amalia  {taken  someivhat  aback  by  Signora  Cints 
presence).    Oh,  my  dear  Signora  Cini!  .  .  . 

Signora  Cini  {introducing  Signora  Nenni).  A  friend 
of  mine,  Signora  Nenni!  I  ventured  to  bring  her  with 
me  .  .  . 

Amalia  {bowing,  but  somewhat  coolly,  to  the  visitor), 
A  great  pleasure,  Signora!  {After  a  pause).  There  is  not 
the  slightest  doubt  in  the  world:  .  .  .  it's  he! 

Signora  Cini.     It's  he?   Are  you  sure  it's  he? 

DiNA.     And  such  a  trick  on  the  poor  old  lady ! 

Amalia.  Trick  is  not  the  name  for  it!  It  is  downright 
dishonest ! 

Laudisi.  Oh,  I  agree  with  you:  it's  outrageous!  Quite! 
So  much  so,  I'm  quite  convinced  it  must  be  she! 

Amalia.  She?  What  do  you  mean?  How  can  you  say 
that? 

Laudisi.     I  say,  it  is  she,  it  is  she,  it's  ^hel 

Amalia.     Oh,  I  say!     If  you  had  heard  her  talk  ...   I 

DiNA.     It  is  absolutely  clear  to  us  now. 

Signora  Cini  and  Signora  Nenni  {swallowing). 
Really?    You  are  sure? 

Laudisi.  Exactly!  Now  that  you  are  sure  it's  he,  why, 
obviously — it  must  be  she. 

DiNA.  Oh  dear  me,  why  talk  to  that  man?  He  is  just 
impossible ! 

Amalia.  Well,  we  must  go  into  the  other  room  .  .  . 
This  way,  if  you  please ! 

{Signora  Cini,  Signora  Nenni  and  Amalia  withdraw 
through  the  door  on  the  left.  Dina  starts  to  follow,  wheii 
Laudisi  calls  her  back). 

Laudisi.     Dina! 

DiNA.     I  refuse  to  listen  to  you!   I  refuse/ 


200  RIGHT    YOU  ARE!  [Act  II] 

Laudisi.  I  was  going  to  suggest  that,  since  the  whole 
matter  is  closed,  you  might  close  the  door  also. 

DiNA.  But  papa  ...  he  told  us  to  leave  it  open.  Ponza 
will  be  here  soon;  and  if  papa  finds  it  closed — well,  you 
know  how  papa  is! 

Laudisi.  But  you  can  convince  him!  ...  You 
especially.  You  can  show  him  that  there  really  was  no  need 
of  going  any  further.  You  are  convinced  yourself,  aren't 
you? 

Dina.     I  am  as  sure  of  it,  as  I  am  that  I'm  alive! 

Laudisi  {putting  her  to  the  test  with  a  smile).  Well, 
close  the  door  then! 

Dina.  I  see,  you're  trying  to  make  me  say  that  I'm  aot 
really  sure.  Well,  I  won't  close  the  door,  but  it's  just  on 
account  of  papa. 

Laudisi.     Shall  I  close  it  for  you? 

Dina.     If   you   take  the   responsibility  yourself!  .  .  , 

Laudisi.  But  you  see,  /  am  sure!  I  know  that  Ponza  is 
the  lunatic! 

Dina.  The  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  come  into  the  other 
Toom  and  just  hear  her  talk  a  while.  Then  you'll  be  sure, 
absolutely  sure.     Coming? 

Laudisi.  Yes,  I'm  coming,  and  I'll  close  the  door  behind 
me — on  my  own  responsibility,  of  course. 

Dina.  Ah,  1  S€e.  So  you're  convinced  even  before  you 
hear  her  talk. 

Laudisi.  No,  dear,  it's  because  I'm  sure  that  your  papa, 
who  has  been  with  Ponza,  is  just  as  certain  as  you  are  that 
any  further  investigation  is  unnecessary. 

Dina.     How  can  you  say  that? 

Laudisi.  Why,  of  course,  if  you  talk  with  Ponza,  you're 
sure  the  old  lady  is  crazy.  (He  walks  resolutely  to  the 
door).    I  am  going  to  shut  this  door. 

Dina    {restraining  him  nervously,  then  hesitating  a  mo- 


^ 


[Act  II]  RIGHT   YOU   ARE/  201 

ment).  Well,  why  not  ...  if  you're  really  sure?  What 
do  you  say — let's  leave  it  open! 

Laudisi.     Hah!  hah!  hah!  hah!  hah!  hah!  hah! 

DiNA.     But  just  because  papa  told  us  to! 

Laudisi.  And  papa  will  tell  you  something  else  by  and 
by.     Say  .  .  .  let's  leave  it  open! 

{A  piano  starts  playing  in  the  adjoining  room — an  ancient 
tune,  full  of  soft  and  solemn  melody;  the  "Nina"  of  Per- 
golesi). 

DiNA.  Oh,  there  she  is.  She's  playing!  Do  you  hear? 
Actually  playing  the  piano! 

Laudisi.    The  old  lady? 

DiNA.  Yes!  And  you  know?  She  told  us  that  her 
daughter  used  to  play  this  tune,  always  the  same  tune.  How 
well  she  plays!     Come!     Com.e! 

{They  hurry  through  the  door). 

The  stage,  after  the  exit  of  Laudisi  and  Dina,  remains 
empty  for  a  space  of  time  while  the  music  continues  from 
the  other  room.  Ponza,  appearing  at  the  door  with  Agazzi, 
catches  the  concluding  notes  and  his  face  changes  to  an  ex- 
pression of  deep  einotion — an  emotion  that  will  develop  into 
a  virtual  frenzy  as  the  scene  proceeds. 

Agazzi  {in  the  doorway).  After  you,  after  you,  please! 
{He  takes  Ponza's  elbow  and  motions  him  into  the  room. 
He  goes  over  to  his  desk,  looks  about  for  the  papers  which 
he  pretends  he  had  forgotten,  finds  them  eventually  and 
says).  Why,  here  they  are!  I  was  sure  I  had  left  them 
here.  Won't  you  take  a  chair,  Ponza?  {Ponza  seems  not 
to  hear.  He  stands  looking  excitedly  at  the  door  into  th^ 
drawing  room,  through  which  the  sound  of  the  piano  is  still 
coming). 

Agazzi.    Yes,  they  are  the  ones!     {He  takes  the  papers 


202  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  II] 

and  steps  to  Ponzas  side,  opening  the  fold).  It  is  an  old 
case,  you  see.  Been  running  now  for  years  and  years!  To 
tell  you  the  truth  I  haven't  made  head  or  tail  of  the  stufE 
myself.  I  imagine  you'll  find  it  one  big  mess.  {He,  too, 
becomes  aware  of  the  music  and  seems  somewhat  irritated 
by  it.  His  eyes  also  rest  on  the  door  to  the  drawing  room). 
That  noise,  just  at  this  moment!  {He  zualks  with  a  show 
of  anger  to  the  door).  Who  is  that  at  the  piano  anyway? 
(7;z  the  doorway  he  stops  and  looks,  and  an  expression  of 
astonishment  comes  into  his  face).     Ah! 

PoNZA  {going  to  the  door  also.  On  looking  into  the 
next  room  he  can  hardly  restrain  his  emotion).  In  the  name 
of  God,  is  she  playing? 

Agazzi.  Yes — Signora  Frola!  And  how  well  she  does 
play! 

PoNZA.  How  is  this?  You  people  have  brought  her  in 
here,  again  !     And  you're  letting  her  play ! 

Agazzi.     Why  not?    What's  the  harm? 

PoNZA.  Oh,  please,  please,  no,  not  that  song!  It  is  the 
one  her  daughter  used  to  play. 

Agazzi.    Ah,  I  see!    And  it  hurts  you? 

PoNZA.  Oh,  no,  not  me — but  her — it  hurts  her — and 
you  don't  know  how  much !  I  thought  I  had  made  you  and 
those  women  understand  just  how  that  poor  old  lady  was! 

Agazzi.  Yes,  you  did  .  .  .  quite  true!  But  you  see 
.  .  .  but  see  here,  Ponza!  {trying  to  pacify  the  mans  grow- 
ing emotion). 

Ponza  {continuing).  But  you  must  leave  her  alone! 
You  must  not  go  to  her  house!  She  must  not  come  in  here! 
I  am  the  only  person  who  can  deal  with  her.  You  are  kill- 
ing her  .  .  .  killing  her! 

Agazzi.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  It  is  not  so  bad  as  that. 
My  wife  and  daughter  are  surely  tactful  enough  .  .  .  {Sud- 
denly the  music  ceases.     There  is  a  burst  of  applause). 


[Act  II]  RIGHT   YOU   ARE/  203 

Agazzi.     There,  you  see.     Listen!     Listen! 

{From  the  next  room  the  following  conversation  is  dis- 
tinctly heard). 

DiNA.  Why,  Signora  Frola,  you  are  perfectly  marvellous 
at  the  piano! 

Signora  Frola.  But  you  should  hear  how  my  Lena 
plays ! 

{Ponza  digs  his  nails  into  his  hands), 

Agazzi.     Her  daughter,  of  course! 

Ponza.  Didn't  you  hear?  "How  my  Lena  plays!  How 
my  Lena  plays'' ! 

{Again  from  the  inside). 

Signora  Frola.  Oh,  no,  not  now!  .  .  .  She  hasn't 
played  for  a  long  time — since  that  happened.  And  you  know, 
it  is  what  she  takes  hardest,  poor  girl ! 

Agazzi.  Why,  that  seems  quite  natural  to  me!  Of 
course,  she  thinks  the  girl  is  still  alive! 

Ponza.  But  she  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  say  such  things. 
She  must  not — she  must  not  say  such  things!  Didn't  you 
hear?  "She  hasn't  played  since  that  happened"!  She  said 
"she  hasn't  played  since  that  happened" !  Talking  of  the 
piano,  you  understand!  Oh,  you  don't  understand,  no,  of 
course!  My  first  wife  had  a  piano  and  played  that  tune. 
Oh,  oh,  oh!     You  people  are  determined  to  ruin  me! 

{Sirelli  appears  at  the  back  door  at  this  moment,  anS> 
hearing  the  concluding  words  of  Ponza  and  noticing  his  ex- 
treme exasperation,  stops  short,  uncertain  as  to  what  to  do. 
Agazzi  is  himself  very  much  affected  and  motions  to  Sirelli 
to  come  in). 

Agazzi.  Why,  no,  my  dear  fellow,  I  don't  see  any  reason 
.  .  .  {To  Sirelli).  Won't  you  just  tell  the  ladies  to  come 
in  here? 

{Sirelli,  keeping  at  a  safe  distance  from  Ponza,  goes  to  the 
door  at  the  left  and  calls). 


204  RIGHT    YOU  A  RE  I  [Act  II] 

PoNZA.  The  ladies  in  here?  In  here  with  me?  Oh,  no, 
no,  please,  rather  .  .  . 

(At  a  signal  from  Sirelli,  who  stands  in  the  doorway  to 
the  left,  his  face  taut  with  intense  emotion,  the  ladies  enter. 
They  all  show  various  kinds  and  degrees  of  excitement  and 
emotion.  Signora  Frola  appears,  and  catching  sight  of  Ponza 
in  the  condition  he  is  in,  stops,  quite  overwhelmed.  As  he 
assails  her  during  the  lines  that  follow,  she  exchanges  glances 
of  understanding  from  time  to  time  with  the  ladies  about  her. 
The  action  here  is  rapid,  nervous,  tense  with  excitement,  and 
extremely  violent). 

Ponza.  You?  Here?  How  is  this?  You!  Here! 
Again!    What  are  you  doing  here? 

Signora  Frola.    Why,  I  just  came  .  .  .  don't  be  cross! 

Ponza.  You  came  here  to  tell  these  ladies  .  .  .  What 
did  you  tell  these  ladies? 

Signora  Frola.    Nothing!    I  swear  to  God,  nothing! 

Ponza.  Nothing?  What  do  you  mean,  nothing?  I 
heard  you  with  my  own  ears,  and  this  gentleman  here  heard 
you  also.  You  said  "she  plays".  Who  plays?  Lena  plays! 
And  you  know  very  well  that  Lena  has  been  dead  for  four 
years.  Dead,  do  you  hear!  Your  daughter  has  been  dead 
— for  four  years! 

Signora  Frola.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  .  .  .  Don't  get  ex- 
cited, my  dear  .  ,  .  Oh,  yes,  oh  yes.    I  know  .  .  . 

Ponza.  And  you  said  "she  hasn't  been  able  to  play  since 
that  happened".  Of  course  she  hasn't  been  able  to  play  since 
that  happened.     How  could  she,  if  she's  dead? 

Signora  Frola.  Why,  of  course,  certainly.  Isn't  that 
what  I  said?  Ask  these  ladies.  I  said  that  she  hasn't  been 
able  to  play  since  that  happened.  Of  course.  How  could 
she,  if  she's  dead  ? 

Ponza.  And  why  were  you  worrying  about  that  piano, 
then? 


[Act  II]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  205 

SiGNORA  Frola.  No,  no!  I'm  not  worrying  about  any 
piano  .  .  . 

PoNZA.  I  broke  that  piano  up  and  destroyed  it.  You 
know  that,  the  moment  your  daughter  died,  to  keep  this 
second  wife  of  mine  from  playing  on  it.  For  that  matter 
you  know  that  this  second  woman  never  plays. 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Why,  of  course,  dear !  Of  course !  She 
doesn't  know  how  to  play! 

PoNZA.  And  one  thing  more:  Your  daughter  was  Lena, 
wasn't  she?  Her  name  was  Lena.  Now,  see  yere!  You 
just  tell  these  people  what  my  second  wife's  name  is.  Speak 
up!  You  know  very  well  what  her  name  is!  What  is  it? 
What  is  it  ? 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Her  name  is  Julia !  Yes,  yes,  of  course, 
my  dear  friends,  her  name  is  Julia!  {Winks  at  someone  in 
the  company). 

PoNZA.  Exactly!  Her  name  is  Julia,  and  not  Lena! 
Who  are  you  winking  at?  Don't  you  go  trying  to  suggest 
by  those  winks  of  yours  that  she's  not  Julia! 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Why,  what  do  you  mean?  I  wasn't 
winking!     Of  course  I  wasn't! 

PoNZA.  I  saw  you!  I  saw  you  very  distinctly!  You 
are  trying  to  ruin  me!  You  are  trying  to  make  these  people 
think  that  I  am  keeping  your  daughter  all  to  myself,  just 
as  though  she  were  not  dead.  {He  breaks  into  convulsive 
sobbing)    .  .  .  just  as  though  she  were  not  dead! 

SiGNORA  Frola  {hurrying  forward  and  speaking  with 
infinite  kindness  and  sympathy) .  Oh  no!  Come,  come,  my 
poor  boy.  Come!  Don't  take  it  so  hard.  I  never  said 
any  such  thing,  did  I,  madam ! 

Amalia,  Signora  Sirelli,  Dina.  Of  course  she  never 
said  such  a  thing!  She  always  said  the  girl  was  dead! 
Yes!    Of  course!    No! 

Signora  Frola.     I  did,  didn't  I?     I  said  she's  dead, 


206  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  II] 

didn't  I  ?  And  that  you  are  so  very  good  to  me.  Didn't  I, 
didn't  I?  I,  trying  to  ruin  you?  I,  trying  to  get  you  into 
trouble  ? 

PoNZA.  And  you,  going  into  other  people's  houses  where 
there  are  pianos,  playing  your  daughter's  tunes  on  them! 
Saying  that  Lena  plays  them  that  way,  or  even  better ! 

SiGNORA  Frola.  No,  it  was  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  you  see 
o  .  .  it  was  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  just  to  see  whether  .  .  . 

PoNZA.  But  you  can't  .  .  .  you  mustnt!  How  could 
you  ever  dream  of  trying  to  play  a  tune  that  your  dead 
daughter  played! 

SiGNORA  Frola.  You  are  quite  right!  .  .  .  Oh,  yes! 
Poor  boy!  Poor  boy!  {She  also  begins  to  weep),  I'll 
never  do  it  again :   Never,  never,  never  again ! 

PoNZA  {advancing  upon  her  threateningly).  What  are 
you  doing  here?  Get  out  of  here!  Go  home  at  once! 
Home!     Home!     Go  home! 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Yes,  Yes !  Home !  I  am  going  home ! 
Oh  dear,  oh  dear! 

{She  backs  out  the  rear  door,  looking  beseechingly  at  the 
company,  as  though  urging  everyone  to  have  pity  on  her  son- 
in-law.  She  retires,  sobbing.  The  others  stand  there  looking 
at  Ponza  with  pity  and  terror;  but  the  moment  Signora 
Frola  has  left  the  room,  he  regains  his  normal  composure, 
an  air  of  despairing  melancholy ,  and  he  says  coolly,  but  with 
profound  seriousness)  : 

Ponza.  I  hope  you  good  people  will  excuse  me  for  this 
scene.  A  scene  it  really  was,  I  suppose!  But  how  could  I 
avoid  it  ?  I  had  to  rave  like  that  to  repair  the  damage  which 
you  good  people,  with  the  best  of  intentions,  and  surely  with- 
out dreaming  what  you  are  really  doing,  have  done  to  this 
unfortunate  woman. 

Agazzi  {in  astonishment).  What  do  you  mean?  That 
you  were  just  acting?    You  were  pretending  all  that? 


[Act  II]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  207 

PoNZA.  Of  course  I  was!  Don't  you  people  understand 
that  I  had  to?  The  only  way  to  keep  her  in  her  obsession 
is  for  me  to  shout  the  truth  that  way,  as  though  I  myself 
had  gone  mad,  as  though  I  were  the  lunatic!  Understand? 
But  please  forgive  me.  I  must  be  going  now.  I  must  go  in 
and  see  how  she  is.  {He  hurries  out  through  the  rear  door. 
The  others  stand  where  they  are  in  blank  amazement) . 

Laudisi  {corning  forward).  And  there,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, you  have  the  truth!  Hah!  hah!  hah;  hah;  hah;  hah! 
hah! 

Curtain. 


ACT    III 

The  same  scene.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Laudisi  is  sprawling 
in  an  easy  chair,  reading  a  book.  Through  the  door  that 
leads  into  the  parlor  on  the  left  comes  the  confused  murmur 
of  many  voices. 

The  butler  appears  in  the  rear  door,  introducing  the  police 
commissioner,  Centuri.  Centuri  is  a  tall,  stiff,  scowling 
official,  with  a  decidedly  professional  air.  He  is  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  forty. 

The  Butler.  This  way,  sir.  I  will  call  SIgnor  Agazzi 
at  once. 

Laudisi  {drawing  himself  up  in  his  chair  and  looking 
around).  Oh,  it's  you,  Commissioner!  {He  rises  hastily 
and  recalls  the  butler,  who  has  stepped  out  through  the 
door).  One  moment,  please !  Wait!  {To  Centuri).  Any- 
thing new,  Commissioner  ? 

Commissioner  {stiffly).     Yes,  something  new! 

Laudisi.  Ah!  Very  well.  {To  the  butler):  Never 
mind.  I'll  call  him  myself.  {He  motions  with  his  hand 
toward  the  door  on  the  left.  The  butler  bows  and  with- 
draws). 

You  have  worked  miracles.  Commissioner!  You're  the 
savior  of  this  town.  Listen!  Do  you  hear  them!  You 
are  the  lion  of  the  place!  How  does  it  feel  to  be  the  father 
of  your  country?  But  say,  what  you've  discovered  is  all 
solid  fact? 

Commissioner.    We've  managed  to  unearth  a  few  people. 

Laudisi.  From  Ponza's  town?  People  who  know  all 
about  him? 

208 


[Act  III]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  209 

Commissioner.  Yes !  And  we  have  gathered  from  them 
a  few  facts, — not  many,  perhaps,  but  well  authenticated. 

Laudisi.  Ah,  that's  nice.  Congratulations!  For  ex- 
ample .  .  . 

CoMMissisoNER.  For  example?  Why,  for  instance,  here 
.  .  .  well,  here  are  all  the  communications  I  have  received. 
Read  'em  yourself ! 

{From  an  inner  pocket  he  draws  a  yellow  envelope,  opened 
at  one  end,  from  which  he  takes  a  document  and  hands  it  to 
Laudisi). 

Laudisi.     Interesting,  I  am  sure.     Very  interesting!   .. 

{He  stands,  reading  the  document  carefully,  commenting 
from  time  to  time  with  exclamations  in  different  tones.  First 
an  "ah"  of  satisfaction,  then  another  "ah"  which  attenuates 
this  enthusiasm  very  much.  Finally  an~  "eh"  of  disappoint- 
ment, which  leads  to  another  "eh"  of  complete  disgust). 
Why,  no,  what's  all  this  amount  to.  Commissioner? 

CoxViMissiONER.  Well,  it's  what  we  were  able  to  find 
out. 

Laudisi.  But  this  doesn't  prove  anything,  you  under- 
stand! It  leaves  everything  just  where  it  was.  There's 
nothing  of  any  significance  whatever  here.  {He  looks  at 
the  co?nmissioner  for  a  moment  and  then,  as  though  suddenly 
making  up  his  mind,  he  says) :  I  wonder,  Commissioner, 
would  you  like  to  do  something  really  great — render  a  really 
distinguished  service  to  this  town;  and  meanwhile  lay  up  a 
treasure  in  heaven? 

Commissioner  {looking  at  him  in  perplexity).  What 
are  you  thinking  of  sir? 

Laudisi.  I'll  explain.  Here,  please,  take  this  chair  1  {He 
sets  the  chair  in  front  of  Agazzis  desk).  I  advise  you,  Mr. 
Commissioner,  to  tear  up  this  sheet  of  paper  that  you've 
brought  and  which  has  absolutely  no  significance  at  all.   But 


210  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  III] 

here  on  this  other  piece  of  paper,  why  don't  you  write  down 
something  that  will  be  precise  and  clear? 

Commissioner.  Why  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  myself?  What  do 
you  mean  ?    What  should  I  write  ? 

Laudisi.  Anything,  anything  at  all!  Anything  that 
comes  into  your  head,  provided,  however,  it  be  precise  and 
clear!  Say,  for  instance,  that  Signora  Frola  is  a  lunatic,  or, 
if  you  will,  if  you  prefer,  that  the  second  marriage  of 
Ponza's  was  a  frame-up ! 

Commissioner.  I  don't  get  you,  Signor  Laudisi.  What 
are  you  driving  at?    I  forge  the  document? 

Laudisi  {insisting).  Forge?  Just  say  something — any- 
thing— that  these  two*  old  acquaintances  of  Ponza's  whom 
you  managed  to  get  hold  of  might  have  said.  Come,  Com- 
missioner, rise  to  the  occasion!  Do  something  for  the  com- 
monwealth! Bring  this  town  back  to  normal  again!  Don't 
you  see  w^hat  they  are  after?  They  all  want  the  truth — a 
truth,  that  is :  Something  specific ;  something  concrete !  They 
don't  care  what  it  is.  All  they  want  is  something  categorical, 
something  that  speaks  plainly!     Then  they'll  quiet  down. 

Commissioner.  The  truth — a  truth?  Excuse  me,  have 
I  understood  you  clearly?  You  were  suggesting  that  I 
commit  a  forgery?  I  am  astonished  that  you  dare  propose 
such  a  thing,  and  when  I  say  I  am  astonished,  I'm  not 
saying  half  what  I  actually  feel.  Be  so  good  as  to  tell  the 
Commendatore  that  I  am  here! 

Laudisi  {dropping  his  arms  dejectedly).  As  you  will, 
Commissioner ! 

{He  steps  over  to  the  door  on  the  left.  As  he  draws  the 
portieres  and  swings  the  door  more  widely  open,  the  voices 
become  louder  and  more  confused.  As  he  steps  through, 
there  is  a  sudden  silence.  The  police  commissioner  stands 
waiting  with  a  satisfied  air,  twirling  one  of  the  points  of  his 
mustache.     All  of  a  sudden,  thtre  is  commotion  and  cheer* 


[Act  III]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  211 

ing  in  the  next  room.  Cries  of  delight  and  applause,  mixed 
with  hand-clapping.  The  police  commissioner  comes  out  of 
his  reverie  and  looks  up  with  an  expression  of  surprise  on  hh 
features,  as  though  not  understanding  what  it's  all  about. 
Through  the  door  to  the  left  come  Agazzi,  Sirelli,  Laudisi, 
Amalia,  Dina,  Signora  Sirelli,  Signora  Cini,  Signora  Nenni, 
and  many  other  ladies  and  gentlemen.  Agazzi  leads  the 
procession.  They  are  all  still  talking  and  laughing  excitedly, 
clapping  their  hands,  and  crying  "I  told  you  so!  Fine!  Fine! 
Good!     How  wonderful!     Now  we'll  know!''  etc.), 

Agazzi  (stepping  forward  cordially).  Ah,  my  dear 
Centuri,  I  was  sure  you  could!  Nothing  ever  gets  by  our 
chief ! 

Company.  Fine!  Good!  What  did  you  find  out! 
Have  you  brought  something?  Is  it  she?  Is  it  he?  Tell 
us? 

Commissioner  (who  doesn't  yet  understand  what  all  the 
excitement  is  about.  For  him  it  has  been  a  mere  matter  of 
routine).  Why,  no  .  .  .  why,  Commendatore,  simply  .  .  . 
you  understand  .  .  . 

Agazzi.     Hush!     Give  him  a  chance!  .  .  . 

Commissioner.  I  have  done  my  best.  I  .  .  .  but  w^hat 
did  Signor  Laudisi  tell  you? 

Agazzi.  He  told  us  that  you  have  brought  news,  real 
news! 

SiRELLi.     Specific  data,  clear,  precise!  .  .  . 

Laudisi  {amplifying) .  .  ,  .  not  many,  perhaps,  but  well 
authenticated !  The  best  they've  managed  to  trace !  Old 
neighbors  of  Ponza,  you  see;  people  well  acquainted  with 
him  .  .  . 

Everybody.  Ah!  At  last!  At  last!  Now  we'll  know  I 
At  last ! 

(The  Commissioner  hands  the  document  to  Agazzi). 

Commissioner.    There  you  have  it,  Commendatore  1 


212  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  III] 

Agazzi   {opening  the  sheet j  as  all  crowd  around  him). 
Let's  have  a  look  at  it! 

Commissioner.     But  you,  Signor  Laudisi  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  Don't  interrupt,  please,  the  document  speaks  for 
itself!    Agazzi,  you  read  it. 

Agazzi  {to  Laudisi).  But  give  me  a  chance,  w^on't  you? 
Please!     Please!     Now!    There  you  are! 

Laudisi.    Oh,  I  don't  care.     I've  read  the  thing  already. 

Everybody  {crowding  around  him).  You've  read  it  al- 
ready?   What  did  it  say?     Is  it  he?     Is  it  she? 

Laudisi  {speaking  very  formally).  There  is  no  doubt 
whatever,  as  a  former  neighbor  of  Ponza's  testifies,  that  the 
woman  Frola  was  once  in  a  sanatorium! 

The  Group  {cries  of  disappointment) .  Oh  really!  Too 
bad!    Too  bad! 

SiGNORA  Sirelli.     Signora  Frola,  did  you  say? 

DiNA.    Are  you  sure  it  was  she? 

Agazzi.  Why,  no!  Why,  no,  it  doesn't  say  anything  of 
the  kind!  {Coming  forward  and  tvaving  the  document 
triumphantly) .  It  doesn't  say  anything  of  the  kind!  {Gen- 
eral excitement). 

Everybody.    Well,  what  does  it  say  ?    What  does  it  say  ? 

Laudisi  {insisting).  It  does  too!  It  says  ''the  Frola 
woman" — the  Frola  woman,  categorically. 

Agazzi.  Nothing  of  the  kind !  The  witness  says  that  he 
thinks  she  was  in  a  sanatorium.  He  does  not  assert  that  she 
was.  Besides,  there  is  another  point.  He  doesn't  know 
whether  this  Frola  woman  who  was  in  a  sanatorium  was 
the  mother  or  the  daughter,  the  first  wife,  that  is! 

Everybody  {with  relief).    Ah! 

Laudisi  {insistingly) .  But  I  say  he  does.  It  must  be  the 
mother!    Who  else  could  it  be    . 

Sirelli.  No,  of  course,  it's  the  daughter!  It's  the 
daughter ! 


[Act  III]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE  I  213 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.     Just  as  the  old  lady  said  herself! 

Amalia.  Exactly!  That  time  when  they  took  her  away 
by  force  from  her  husband !  .  .  . 

DiNA.  Yes,  she  says  that  her  daughter  was  taken  to  a 
sanatorium  on  account  of  a  contagious  disease. 

Agazzi.  Furthermore,  observe  another  thing.  The  wit- 
ness does  not  really  belong  to  their  town.  He  says  that  he 
used  to  go  there  frequently,  but  that  he  does  not  remember 
particularly.  He  remembers  that  he  heard  something  or 
other!  .  .  . 

SiRELLi.  Ah!  How  can  you  depend  on  such  a  man's 
testimony?     Nothing  but  hearsay! 

Laudisi.  But,  excuse  me!  If  all  you  people  are  so 
sure  that  Signora  Frola  is  right,  what  more  do  you  want? 
Why  do  you  go  looking  for  documents?  This  is  all  non- 
jense ! 

SiRELLi.  If  it  weren't  for  the  fact  that  the  prefect  has 
accepted  Ponza's  side  of  the  story,  I'll  tell  you  .  .  . 

Commissioner.  Yes,  that's  true.  The  prefect  said  as 
much  to  me  .  c  . 

Agazzi.  Yes,  but  that's  because  the  prefect  has  never 
talked  with  the  old  lady  who  lives  next  door. 

Signora  Sirelli.  You  bet  he  hasn't.  He  talked  only 
*vith  Ponza. 

Sirelli.  But,  for  that  matter,  there  are  other  people  of 
the  same  mind  as  the  prefect. 

A  Gentleman.  That  is  my  situation,  my  situation  ex- 
actly. Yes  sir!  Because  I  know  of  just  such  as  case  where 
a  mother  went  insane  over  the  death  of  her  daughter  and 
insists  that  the  daughter's  husband  will  not  allow  her  to  see 
the  girl.    The  same  case  to  a  T. 

A  Second  Gentleman.  Not  exactly  to  a  T !  Not  ex- 
actly to  a  T !    In  the  case  you  mention  the  man  didn't  marry 


214  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  III] 

again.  Here,  this  man  Ponza  is  living  with  another  wo- 
man .  .  . 

Laudisi  {his  face  brightening  with  a  new  idea  that  has 
suddenly  come  to  him).  I  have  it,  ladies  and  gentlemen! 
Did  you  hear  that?  It's  perfectly  simple.  Dear  me,  as 
simple  as  Columbus's  egg! 

Everybody.     What?     What?     What?     What? 

The  Second  Gentleman.  What  did  I  say?  I  didn't 
realize  it  was  important. 

Laudisi.  Just  a  moment,  ladies  and  gentlemen !  ( Turn- 
ing to  Agazzi) :    Is  the  prefect  coming  here,  by  chance? 

Agazzi.  Yes,  we  were  expecting  him.  But  what's  the 
new  idea? 

Laudisi.  Why,  you  were  bringing  him  here  to  talk 
with  Signora  Frola.  So  far,  he  is  standing  by  Ponza.  When 
he  has  talked  with  the  old  lady,  he'll  know  whether  to  be- 
lieve Ponza  or  her.  That's  your  idea!  Well,  I've  thought 
of  something  better  that  the  prefect  can  do.  Something  that 
he  only  can  do. 

Everybody.    What  is  it?    What  is  it?    What  is  it? 

Laudisi  (triumphantly) .  Why,  this  wife  of  Ponza's,  of 
course  ...  at  least,  the  woman  he  is  living  with!  What 
this  gentleman  said  suggested  the  idea  to  me. 

SiRELLi.  Get  the  second  woman  to  talk?  Of  course! 
Of  course ! 

DiNA.  But  how  can  we,  when  she  is  kept  under  lock 
and  key? 

Laudisi.  Why,  the  prefect  can  use  his  authority — order 
her  to  speak! 

Amalia.  Certainly,  she  is  the  one  who  can  clear  up  the 
whole  mystery. 

Signora  Sirelli.  I  don't  believe  it.  She'll  say  just 
what  her  husband  tells  her  to  say. 


[Act  III]  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  215 

Laudisi.  Of  course,  if  she  were  to  speak  in  his  presence 
...  of  course! 

SiRELLi.  She  must  speak  with  the  prefect  privately,  all 
by  himself. 

Agazzi.  And  the  prefect,  as  the  final  authority  over  the 
man,  will  insist  that  the  wife  make  a  formal  explicit  state- 
ment before  him.  Of  course,  of  course!  What  do  you  say, 
Commissioner  ? 

Commissioner.  Why  certainly,  there's  no  doubt  that  if 
the  prefect  were  so  inclined  .  .  . 

Agazzi.  It  is  the  only  way  out  of  it,  after  all.  We  ought 
to  'phone  him  and  explain  that  he  needn't  go  to  the  trouble 
of  coming  here.  You  attend  to  that,  will  you.  Commis- 
sioner ? 

Commissioner.  Very  glad  to!  My  compliments,  ladies! 
Good  afternoon,  gentlemen! 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.     A  good  idea  for  once,  Laudisi. 

DiNA.  Oh,  Nunky,  how  clever  of  you!  Wise  old 
NunkyI 

The  Company.  The  only  way  out  of  it!  Yes!  Yes! 
Fine !    At  last ! 

Agazzi.    Curious  none  of  us  thought  of  that  before! 

Sirelli.  Not  so  curious!  None  of  us  ever  set  eyes  on 
the  woman.  She  might  as  well  be  in  another  world,  poor 
girl. 

Laudisi  {as  though  suddenly  impressed  by  this  latter  re- 
ftection).  In  another  world?  Why  yes, — are  you  really  sure 
there  is  such  a  \voman? 

Amalia.    Oh  I  say!     Please,  please,  Lamberto! 

Sirelli  (with  a  laugh).  You  mean  to  say  you  think 
there  is  no  such  woman? 

Laudisi.  How  can  you  be  sure  there  is?  You  can't 
guarantee  it! 


216  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  [Act  III] 

DiNA.  But  the  old  lady  sees  her  and  talks  with  her  every 
day. 

SiGNORA  SiRELLi.  And  Ponza  says  that,  too.  They  both 
agree  on  that  point! 

Laudisi.  Yes,  yes,  I  don't  deny  that.  But  just  a  moment! 
If  you  think  of  it,  isn't  Signora  Frola  right?  Well,  in  that 
case  who  is  the  woman  in  Ponza's  eyes?  The  phantom  of  a 
second  wife,  of  course !  Or  else  Ponza  himself  is  right,  and 
in  that  case  you  have  the  phantom  of  a  daughter  in  the 
old  lady's  eyes!  Two  phantoms,  in  other  words!  Now 
we've  got  to  find  out,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  whether  this 
woman,  who  must  be  a  mere  phantom  for  the  one  or  for 
the  other,  is  a  person,  after  all  for  herself.  In  the  situa- 
tion we  are  in,  I  should  say  there  was  very  good  ground 
for  doubting. 

Agazzi.  Oh,  you  make  me  tired!  If  we  listen  to 
you  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  No,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  notice!  It  may  be 
that  she  is  nothing  but  a  phantom  in  her  own  eyes. 

Signora  Nenni.  Why,  this  is  getting  to  be  almost 
spooky ! 

Signora  Cini.  You  mean  to  say  it's  a  ghost,  a  real  ghost  ? 
How  can  you  frighten  us  so? 

Everybody.  Nonsense!  He's  only  joking!  He's  only 
joking! 

Laudisi.  Not  a  bit  of  it!  I'm  not  joking  at  all!  Who 
ever  saw  the  woman?  No  one  ever  set  eyes  on  her.  He 
talks  of  her,  to  be  sure;  and  she,  the  old  woman  that  is, 
says  that  she  often  sees  her. 

Sirelli.  Nonsense!  Any  number  of  people  have  seen 
her;  she  comes  to  the  balcony  of  the  courtyard. 

Laudisi.    Who  comes  to  the  balcony  ? 

Sirelli.    A  woman  in  flesh  and  bones — in  skirts,  for  that 


[Act  III]  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  217 

matter.  People  have  seen  her  and  people  have  heard  her 
talk.     For  heaven's  sake,  man! 

Laudisi.    Are  you  sure  of  that? 

Agazzi.  And  why  not,  pray?  You  said  so  yourself  a 
moment  ago! 

Laudisi.  Why  yes,  I  did  say  so!  I  did  say  that  the 
prefect  ought  to  have  a  talk  with  whatever  woman  is  there. 
But  notice  one  thing,  it  is  certain  that  no  ordinary  woman  is 
there.  No  ordinary  woman !  Of  that  much  we  can  be  sure ! 
And  I,  for  my  part,  have  come  to  doubt  whether  she  is  in 
any  sense  of  the  term,  a  woman. 

Signora  Sirelli  Dear  me,  dear  me!  That  man  simply 
drives  me  crazy. 

Laudisi.    Well,  supposing  we  wait  and  see! 

Everybody.  Well,  who  is  she  then?  But  people  have 
seen  her!     His  wife!     On  the  balcony!     She  writes  letters! 

Police  Commissioner  {in  the  heat  of  the  confusion 
comes  into  the  room,  excitedly  announcing) .  The  prefect  is 
coming!    The  prefect! 

Agazzi.  What  do  you  mean?  Coming  here?  But  you 
went  to  .  .  . 

Commissioner.  Why  yes,  but  I  met  him  hardly  a  block 
away.     He  was  coming  here;  and  Ponza  is  with  him. 

Sirelli.    Ah,  Ponza! 

Agazzi.  Oh,  if  Ponza  is  with  him,  I  doubt  whether  he 
is  coming  here.  They  are  probably  on  their  way  to  the  old 
lady's.  Please,  Centuri,  you  just  wait  on  the  landing  tliere 
and  ask  him  if  he  won't  step  in  here  as  he  promised  ? 

Commissioner.  Very  well!  I'll  do  so!  {He  withdraws 
hurriedly  through  the  door  in  the  rear). 

Agazzi.    Won't  you  people  just  step  into  the  other  room? 

Signora  Sirelli.  But  remember  now,  be  sure  to  make 
him  see  the  point !    It's  the  only  way  out,  the  only  way. 


218  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  III] 

Amalia  {at  the  door  to  the  left).  This  way,  ladies,  if 
you  please ! 

Agazzi.  Won't  you  just  stay  here,  Sirelli ;  and  you,  too, 
Lamberto  ? 

{All  the  others  go  out  through  the  door  to  the  left). 

Agazzi  {to  Laudisi).  But  let  me  do  the  talking,  won't 
you! 

Laudisi.  Oh,  as  for  that,  don't  worry.  In  fact,  if  you 
prefer,  I'll  go  into  the  other  room  .  .  . 

Agazzi.  No,  no,  it's  better  for  you  to  be  here.  Ah, 
here  he  is  now! 

The  Prefect  is  a  man  of  about  sixty,  tall,  thick  set,  good 
naturedy  affable. 

Prefect.  Ah,  Agazzi,  glad  to  see  you.  How  goes  it, 
Sirelli?  Good  to  see  you  again,  Laudisi.  {He  shakes 
hands  all  around). 

Agazzi  {motioning  toward  a  chair).  I  hope  you  won't 
mind  my  having  asked  you  to  come  here. 

Prefect.     No,  I  was  coming,  just  as  I  promised  you! 

Agazzi   {noticing  the  police  commissioner  at  the  door). 
Oh,    I'm   sorry.    Commissioner!      Please   come   in!      Here, 
have  a  chair ! 

Prefect  {good-naturedly  to  Sirelli).  By  the  way,  Sirelli, 
they  tell  me  that  you've  gone  half  nutty  over  this  blessed 
affair  of  our  new  secretary. 

Sirelli.  Oh,  no,  governor,  believe  me.  I'm  no"  ^^^  '^nlv 
one !    The  whole  village  is  worked  up. 

Agazzi.    And  that's  putting  it  very  mildly. 

Prefect.  What's  it  all  about?  What's  it  all  about? 
Good  heavens! 

Agazzi.    Of  course,  governor,  you're  probably  not  posted 


[Act  III]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  219 

on  the  whole  business.  The  old  lady  lives  here  next 
door.  .  .  . 

Prefect.     Yes,  I  understand  so. 

SiRELLi.  No,  one  moment,  please,  governor.  You  haven't 
talked  with  the  poor  old  lady  yet. 

Prefect.  I  was  on  my  way  to  see  her.  {Turning  to 
Agazzi).  I  had  promised  you  to  see  her  here,  but  Ponza 
came  and  begged  me,  almost  on  my  knees,  to  see  her  in  her 
own  house.  His  idea  was  to  put  an  end  to  all  this  talk 
that's  going  around.  Do  you  think  he  would  have  done  such 
a  thing  if  he  weren't  absolutely  sure? 

Agazzi.  Of  course,  he's  sure!  Because  when  she's  talk- 
ing in  front  of  him,  the  poor  woman  .  .  . 

Sirelli  {suddenly  getting  in  his  oar).  She  says  just  what 
he  wants  her  to  say,  governor;  which  proves  that  she  is  far 
from  being  as  insane  as  he  claims. 

Agazzi.  We  had  a  sample  of  that,  here,  yesterday,  all 
of  us. 

Prefect.  Why,  I  understand  so.  You  see  he's  trying 
all  the  time  to  make  her  believe  he's  crazy.  He  warned  me 
of  that.  And  how  else  could  he  keep  the  poor  woman  in 
her  illusion?  Do  you  see  any  way?  All  this  talk  of  yours 
is  simply  torture  to  the  poor  fellow!  Believe  me,  pure 
torture  I 

Sirelli.  Very  well,  governor!  But  supposing  she  is  the 
one  who  is  trying  to  keep  him  in  the  idea  that  her  daughter 
is  dead ;  so  as  to  reassure  him  that  his  wife  will  not  be  taken 
from  him  again.  In  that  case,  you  see,  governor,  it's  the  old 
lady  who  is  being  tortured,  and  not  Ponza! 

Agazzi.  The  moment  you  see  the  possibility  of  that, 
governor  .  .  .  Well,  you  ought  to  hear  her  talk ;  but  all  by 
herself,  when  he's  not  around.  Then  you'd  see  the  possibil- 
ity all  right  .  .  . 

Sirelli.    Just  as  we  all  see  it  I 


220  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  III] 

Prefect.  Oh,  I  wonder!  You  don't  seem  to  me  so 
awfully  sure;  and  for  my  part,  I'm  quite  willing  to  con- 
fess that  I'm  not  so  sure  myself.    How  about  you,  Laudisi? 

Laudisi.  Sorry,  governor,  I  promised  Agazzi  here  to 
keep  my  mouth  shut. 

Agazzi  {protesting  angrily).  Nothing  of  the  kind! 
How  dare  you  say  that?  When  the  governor  asks  you  a 
plain  question  .  .  .  It's  true  I  told  him  not  to  talk,  but 
do  you  know  why?  He's  been  doing  his  best  for  tlie  past 
two  days  to  keep  us  all  rattled  so  that  we  can't  find  out 
anything. 

Laudisi.  Don't  you  believe  him,  governor.  On  the 
contrary.  I've  been  doing  my  best  to  bring  these  people  to 
common  sense. 

SiRELLi.  Common  sense!  And  do  you  know  what  he 
calls  common  sense  ?  According  to  him  it  is  not  possible  to 
discover  the  truth ;  and  now  he's  been  suggesting  that  Ponza 
is  living  not  with  a  woman,  but  with  a  ghost ! 

Prefect  {enjoying  the  situation).  That's  a  new  one! 
Quite  an  idea !     How  do  you  make  that  out,  Laudisi  ? 

Agazzi.  Oh,  I  say !  .  .  .  You  know  how  he  is.  There's 
no  getting  an^^where  with  him! 

Laudisi.  I  leave  it  to  you,  governor.  I  was  the  one  who 
first  suggested  bringing  the  woman  here. 

Prefect.  And  do  you  think,  Laudisi,  I  ought  to  see 
the  old  lady  next  door? 

Laudisi.  No,  I  advise  no  such  thing,  governor.  In  my 
judgment  you  are  doing  very  well  in  depending  on  what 
Ponza  tells  you. 

Prefect.  Ah,  I  see!  Because  you,  too,  think  that 
Ponza  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  No,  not  at  all  .  .  .  because  I'm  also  satisfied 
to  have  all  these  people  stand  on  what  Signora  Frola  says, 
if  that  does  them  any  good. 


[Act  III]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  221 

Agazzi.  So  you  see,  eh,  governor?  That's  what  you 
call  arguing,  eh? 

Prefect.  Just  a  moment !  Let  me  understand !  ( Turn- 
ing to  Laudisi)  :  So  you  say  we  can  also  trust  what  the  old 
lady  says? 

Laudisi.  Of  course  you  can!  Implicitly!  And  so  you 
can  depend  upon  what  Ponza  says.     Implicitly! 

Prefect.     Excuse  me,  I  don't  follow  you! 

SiRELLi.  But  man  alive,  if  they  both  say  the  exact  op- 
posite of  each  other!  .  .  . 

Agazzi  {angrily  and  with  heat).  Listen  to  me,  gov- 
ernor, please.  I  am  prejudiced  neither  in  favor  of  the  old 
lady  nor  in  favor  of  Ponza.  I  recognize  that  he  may  be 
right  and  that  she  may  be  right.  But  we  ought  to  settle  the 
matter,  and  there  is  only  one  way  to  do  it. 

SiRELLi.     The  way  that  Laudisi  here  suggested. 

Prefect.  He  suggested  it?  That's  interesting?  What 
is  it? 

Agazzi.  Since  we  haven't  been  able  to  get  any  positive 
proof,  there  is  only  one  thing  left.  You,  as  Ponza's  final 
superior,  as  the  man  who  can  fire  him  if  need  be,  can  obtain 
a  statement  from  his  wife. 

Prefect.     Make  his  wife  talk,  you  mean? 

SiRELLi.  But  not  in  the  presence  of  her  husband,  you 
understand. 

Agazzi.     Yes,  making  sure  she  tells  the  truth ! 

SiRELLi.  .  .  .  tell  whether  she's  the  daughter  of  Signora 
Frola,  that  is,  as  we  think  she  must  be  .  .  . 

Agazzi.  ...  or  a  second  wife  who  is  consenting  to  im- 
personate the  daughter  of  Signora  Frola,  as  Ponza  claims. 

Prefect.  .  .  .  and  as  I  believe  myself,  without  a  shadow 
of  doubt!  {Thinking  a  moment),  Why,  I  don't  see  any 
objection  to  having  her  talk.  Who  could  object?  Ponza? 
But  Ponza,  as  I  know  very  well,  is  more  eager  than  anybody 


222  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  III] 

else  to  have  this  talk  quieted  down.  He's  all  upset  over 
tliis  whole  business,  and  said  he  was  willing  to  do  anything 
I  proposed.  I'm  sure  he  will  raise  no  objection.  So  if  it 
will  ease  the  minds  of  you  people  here  .  .  .  Say,  Centuri 
{the  police  commissioner  rises),  won't  you  just  ask  Ponza  to 
step  in  here  a  moment  ?  He's  next  door  with  his  mother-in- 
law. 

Commissioner.  At  once,  Your  Excellency!  (He  bows 
and  withdraws  through  the  door  at  the  rear), 

Agazzi.     Oh  well,  if  he  consents  .  Jf*. 

Prefect.  He'll  consent,  all  right.  And  we'll  be  through 
with  it  in  a  jiffy.  We'll  bring  her  right  in  here  so  that  you 
people  .  .  . 

Agazzi.     Here,  in  my  house? 

SiRELLi.     You  think  he'll  let  his  wife  come  in  here? 

Prefect.  Just  leave  it  to  me,  just  leave  it  to  me!  I 
prefer  to  have  her  right  here  because,  otherwise  you  see,  you 
people  would  always  suppose  that  I  and  Ponza  had  .  .  . 

Agazzi.     Oh,  please,  governor,  no!    That's  not  fair! 

SiRELLi.     Oh,  no,  governor,  we  trust  you  implicitly! 

Prefect.  Oh,  I'm  not  offended,  not  at  all!  But  you 
know  very  well  that  I'm  on  his  side  in  this  matter;  and 
you'd  always  be  thinking  that  to  hush  up  any  possible  scandal 
in  connection  with  a  man  in  my  office  .  .  .  No,  you  see.  I 
must  insist  on  having  the  interview  here  .  .  .  Where's  your 
wife,  Agazzi? 

Agazzi.  In  the  other  room,  governor,  with  some  other 
ladies. 

Prefect.  Other  ladies?  Aha,  I  see!  {Laughing).  You 
have  a  regular  detective  bureau  here,  eh?  {The  police  com- 
missiont  •  enters  with  Ponza), 

Commissioner.     May  I  come  in?    Signor  Ponza  is  here. 

Prefect.  Thanks,  Centuri.  This  way,  Ponza,  come 
right  in!     {Ponza  bows). 


[Act  III]  RIGHT    YOU  ARE!  223 

Agazzi.  Have  a  chair,  Ponza.  (Ponza  bows  and  sits 
down ) . 

Prefect.  I  believe  you  knovir  these  gentlemen?  (Ponza 
rises  and  bows). 

Agazzi.  Yes,  I  introduced  them  yesterday.  And  this  is 
Laudisi,  my  wife's  brother.    {Ponza  bows). 

Prefect.  I  venture  to  disturb  you,  my  dear  Ponza,  just 
to  tell  you  that  here  with  these  friends  of  mine  ...  {At  the 
first  words  of  the  prefect,  Ponza  evinces  the  greatest  nerv- 
ousness and  agitation). 

Prefect.  Was  there  something  you  wanted  to  say, 
Ponza  ? 

Ponza.  Yes,  there  is  something  I  want  to  say,  governor. 
I  want  to  present  my  resignation  here  and  now. 

Prefect.  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  I'm  so  sorry!  But  just  a 
few  moments  ago  down  at  the  office  you  were  talking  .  .  . 

Ponza.  Oh,  really,  this  is  an  outrage,  governor!  This 
is  just  plain  persecution,  plain  persecution! 

Prefect.  Oh,  now,  don't  take  it  that  way,  old  man.  See 
here.    These  good  people  .  .  . 

Agazzi.     Persecution,  did  you  say?    On  my  part?  .  .  . 

Ponza.  On  the  part  of  all  of  you!  And  I  am  sick  and 
tired  of  it!  I  am  going  to  resign,  governor.  I  refuse  to 
submit  to  this  ferocious  prying  into  my  private  affairs  which 
will  end  by  undoing  a  work  of  love  that  has  cost  me  untold 
sacrifice  these  past  two  years.  You  don't  know,  governor! 
Why,  I've  treated  that  dear  old  lady  in  there  just  as  tenderly 
as  though  she  were  my  own  mother.  And  yesterday  I  had 
to  shout  at  her  in  the  most  cruel  and  terrible  way!  Why, 
I  found  her  just  now  so  worked  up  and  excited  that  .  .  . 

Agazzi.  That's  queer!  While  she  was  in  here  Signora 
Frola  was  quite  mistress  of  herself.  If  anybody  was  worked 
up,  Ponza,  it  was  you.    And  even  now,  if  I  might  say  .  .  , 


224  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  [Act  III] 

PoNZA.  But  you  people  don't  know  what  you're  making 
me  go  through! 

Prefect.  Oh,  come,  come,  my  dear  fellows,  don't  take 
it  so  hard.  After  all,  I'm  here,  am  I  not?  And  you  know 
I've  always  stood  by  you!    And  I  always  will! 

PoNZA.  Yes,  governor,  and  I  appreciate  your  kindness, 
really ! 

Prefect.  And  then  you  say  that  you're  as  fond  of  this 
poor  old  lady  as  you  would  be  if  she  were  your  own  mother. 
Well,  now,  just  remember  that  these  good  people  here  seem 
to  be  prying  into  your  affairs  because  they,  too,  are  fond  of 
her!  .  .  . 

PoNZA.  But  they're  killing  her,  I  tell  you,  governor! 
They're  killing  her,  and  I  warned  them  in  advance. 

Prefect.  Very  well,  Ponza,  very  well!  Now  we'll  get 
through  with  this  matter  in  no  time.  See  here,  it  is  all  very 
simple.  There  is  one  way  that  you  can  convince  these  people 
without  the  least  doubt  in  the  world.  Oh,  not  me — I  don't 
need  convincing.     I  believe  you. 

Ponza.  But  they  won't  believe  me,  no  matter  what  I 
say. 

Agazzi.  That's  not  so !  When  you  came  here  after  your 
mother-in-law's  first  visit  and  told  us  that  she  was  insane, 
all  of  us  .  .  .  well,  we  were  surprised,  but  we  believed  you. 
{Turning  to  the  prefect)  :  But  after  he  left,  you  understand, 
the  old  lady  came  back  .  .  . 

Prefect.  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  He  told  me.  {Turning 
to  Ponza  again).  She  came  back  here  and  said  that  she  was 
trying  to  do  with  you  exactly  what  you  say  you  were  trying 
to  do  with  her.  It's  natural,  isn't  it,  that  people  hearing  both 
stories,  should  be  somewhat  confused.  Now  you  see  that 
these  good  people,  in  view  of  what  your  mother-in-law  says, 
can't  possibly  be  sure  of  what  you  say.  So  there  you  are. 
Now,  such  being  the  case,  you  and  your  mother-in-law — 


[Act  III]  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  225 

why,  it's  perfectly  simple — you  two  just  step  aside.  Now 
you  know  you're  telling  the  truth,  don't  you  ?  So  do  I !  So 
you  can't  possibly  object  to  their  hearing  the  testimony  of 
the  only  person  who  does  know,  aside  from  you  two. 

PoNZA.     And  who  may  that  be,  pray? 

Prefect.     Why,  your  wife ! 

PoNZA.  My  wife!  (Decisively  and  angrily).  Ah,  no! 
I  refuse!     Never  in  the  world!     Never! 

Prefect.     And  why  not,  old  man? 

PoNZA.  Bring  my  wife  here  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of 
these  strangers? 

Prefect  {sharply).  And  my  curiosity,  too,  if  you  don't 
mind!   What  objection  can  you  have? 

PoNZA.  Oh,  but  governor,  no !  My  wife!  Here?  No! 
Why  drag  my  wife  in?  These  people  ought  to  believe 
me! 

Prefect.  But  don't  you  see,  my  dear  fellow,  that  the 
course  you're  taking  now  is  just  calculated  to  discredit  what 
you  say? 

Agazzi.  His  mistake  in  the  first  place,  governor,  was 
trying  to  prevent  his  mother-in-law  from  coming  here  and 
calling — a  double  discourtesy,  mark  you,  to  my  wife  and  to 
my  daughter! 

PoNZA.  But  what  in  the  name  of  God  do  you  people 
want  of  me?  You've  been  nagging  and  nagging  at  that 
poor  old  woman  next  door;  and  now  you  want  to  get  your 
clutches  on  my  wife!  No,  governor!  I  refuse  to  submit  to 
such  an  indignity!  She  owes  nothing  to  anybody.  My  wife 
is  not  making  visits  in  this  town.  You  say  you  believe  me, 
governor?  That's  enough  for  me!  Here's  my  resignation! 
I'll  go  out  and  look  for  another  job! 

Prefect.  No,  no,  Ponza,  I  must  speak  plainly.  In  the 
first  place  I  have  always  treated  you  on  the  square ;  and  you 
have  no  right  to  speak  in  that  tone  of  voice  to  me.     In  the 


226  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  [Act  III] 

second  place  you  are  beginning  to  make  me  doubt  your  word 
by  refusing  to  furnish  me — not  other  people — but  me,  the 
evidence  that  I  have  asked  for  in  your  interest,  evidence, 
moreover,  that  so  far  as  I  can  see,  cannot  possibly  do  you 
any  harm.  It  seems  to  me  that  my  colleague  here,  Signer 
Agazzi,  can  ask  a  lady  to  come  to  his  house !  But  no,  if  you 
prefer,  we'll  go  and  see  her. 

PoNZA.     So  you  really  insist,  governor? 

Prefect.  I  insist,  but  as  I  told  you,  in  your  own  interest. 
You  realize,  besides,  that  I  might  have  the  legal  right  to 
question  her  .  .  . 

PoNZA.  I  see,  I  see!  So  that's  it!  An  official  investiga- 
tion !  Well,  why  not,  after  all  ?  I  will  bring  my  wife  here, 
just  to  end  the  whole  matter.  But  how  can  you  guarantee 
me  that  this  poor  old  lady  next  door  will  not  catch  sight  of 
her? 

Prefect.  Why,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that !  She  does  live 
right  next  door. 

Agazzi  {speaking  up).  We  are  perfectly  willing  to  go  to 
Signor  Ponza's  house. 

PoNZA.  No,  no,  I  was  just  thinking  of  you  people.  I 
don't  want  you  to  play  any  more  tricks  on  me.  Any  mistakes 
might  have  the  most  frightful  consequences,  set  her  going 
again ! 

Agazzi.  You're  not  very  fair  to  us,  Ponza,  it  seems  to 
me. 

Prefect.  Or  you  might  bring  your  wife  to  my  office, 
rather  .  .  . 

PoNZA.  No,  no!  Since  you're  going  to  question  her  any- 
way, we  might  as  well  get  through  with  it.  We'll  bring  her 
here,  right  here.  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  my  mother-in-law  my- 
self. We'll  have  her  here  right  away,  governor,  and  get  an 
end  of  this  nonsense  once  and  for  all,  once  and  for  all!  (He 
hurries  away  through  the  rear  exit.) 


[Act  III]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  227 

Prefect.  I  confess  I  was  not  expecting  so  much  opposi- 
tion on  his  part. 

Agazzi.  Ah,  you'll  see.  He'll  go  and  cook  up  with  his 
wife  just  what  she's  to  say! 

Prefect.  Oh,  don't  worry  as  to  that!  I'll  question  the 
woman  myself. 

SiRELLi.     But  he's  more  excited  than  he's  ever  been  before. 

Prefect.  Well,  I  confess  I  never  saw  him  just  in  this 
state  of  mind.  Perhaps  it  is  the  sense  of  outrage  he  feels 
in  having  to  bring  his  wife  .  .  . 

SiRELLl.  In  having  to  let  her  loose  for  once,  you  ought  to 
say! 

Prefect.  A  man  isn't  necessarily  crazy  because  he  wants 
to  keep  an  eye  on  his  wife. 

Agazzi.  Of  course  he  sa)^s  it's  to  protect  her  from  the 
mother-in-law. 

Prefect.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  just  that — he  may  be 
jealous  of  the  woman! 

SiRELLi.  Jealous  to  the  extent  of  refusing  her  a  servant  ? 
For  you  know,  don't  you,  he  makes  his  wife  do  all  the 
housework  ? 

Agazzi.  And  he  does  all  the  marketing  himself  every 
morning. 

Commissioner.  That's  right,  governor!  I've  had  him 
shadowed.  An  errand  boy  from  the  market  carries  the  stuff 
as  far  as  the  door. 

Sirelli.     But  he  never  lets  the  boy  inside. 

Prefect.  Dear  me,  dear  me!  He  excused  himself  for 
that  servant  business  when  I  took  the  matter  up  with  him. 

Laudisi.     And  that's  information  right  from  the  source  I 

Prefect.     He  says  he  does  it  to  save  money. 

Laudisi.  He  has  to  keep  two  establishments  on  one 
salary. 

Sirelli.     Oh,  we  weren't  criticising  how  he  runs  his 


228  RIGHT   YOU  ARE!  [Act  III] 

house;  but  I  ask  you  as  a  matter  of  common  sense:  he  is  a 
man  of  some  position,  and  do  you  think  that  this  second  wife 
of  his,  as  he  calls  her,  who  ought  to  be  a  lady,  would  consent 
to  do  all  the  work  about  the  house?  .  .  . 

Agazzi.  The  hardest  and  most  disagreeable  work,  you 
understand  .  .  . 

SiRELLi.  .  .  .  just  out  of  consideration  for  the  mother 
of  her  husband's  first  wife? 

Agazzi.  Oh,  I  say,  governor,  be  honest  now!  That 
doesn't  seem  probable,  does  it? 

Prefect.     I  confess  it  does  seem  queer  .  .  . 

Laudisi.  ...  in  case  this  second  woman  is  an  ordinary 
woman ! 

Prefect.  Yes,  but  let's  be  frank.  It  doesn't  seem 
reasonable.  But  yet,  one  might  say — well,  you  could  explain 
it  as  generosity  on  her  part,  and  even  better,  as  jealousy  on 
his  part.  Lunatic  or  no  lunatic,  there  is  no  denying  that 
he's  jealous! 

(A  confused  clamor  of  voices  is  heard  from  the  next  door) . 

Agazzi.     My,  I  wonder  what's  going  on  in  there ! 

{Amalia  enters  from  the  door  on  the  left  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement) . 

Amalia.     Signora  Frola  is  here! 

Agazzi.  Impossible!  How  in  the  world  did  she  get  in? 
Who  sent  for  her? 

Amalia.     Nobody!    She  came  of  her  own  accord! 

Prefect.  Oh,  no,  please — ^just  a  moment!  No!  Send 
her  away,  madam,  please! 

Agazzi.  We've  got  to  get  rid  of  her.  Don't  let  her  in 
here!     We  must  absolutely  keep  her  out! 

{Signora  Frola  appears  at  the  door  on  the  left,  trembling, 
besseching,  weeping,  a  handkerchief  in  her  hand.  The  people 
in  the  next  room  are  crowding  around  behind  her). 


[Act  III]  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  229 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Oh,  please,  please!  You  tell  them, 
Signer  Agazzi!    Don't  let  them  send  me  away! 

Agazzi.  But  you  must  go  away,  madam!  We  simply 
can't  allow  you  to  be  here  now! 

SiGNORA  Frola  {desperately).  Why?  Why?  {Turn- 
ing to  Amalia).   I  appeal  to  you,  Signora  Agazzi. 

Amalia.  But  don't  you  see?  The  prefect  is  there! 
They're  having  an  important  meeting. 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Oh,  the  prefect!  Please,  governor, 
please!    I  was  intending  to  go  and  see  you. 

Prefect.  No,  I  am  so  sorry,  madam.  I  can't  see  you 
just  now!    You  must  go  away! 

Signora  Frola.  Yes,  I  am  going  away.  I  am  going 
to  leave  town  this  very  day!  I  am  going  to  leave  town  and 
never  come  back  again! 

Agazzi.  Oh,  we  didn't  mean  that,  my  dear  Signora 
Frola.  We  meant  that  we  couldn't  see  you  here,  just  now, 
in  this  room.  Do  me  a  favor,  please!  You  can  see  the 
governor  by  and  by. 

Signora  Frola.  But  why?  I  don't  understand !  What's 
happened! 

Agazzi.  Why,  your  son-in-law  will  soon  be  here !  There, 
now  do  you  see? 

Signora  Frola.  Oh,  he's  coming  here?  Oh,  yes,  in 
that  case  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  .  .  .  Fll  go!  But  there  was  some- 
thing I  wanted  to  say  to  you  people.  You  must  stop  all  this. 
You  must  let  us  alone.  You  think  you  are  helping  me.  You 
are  trying  to  do  me  a  favor ;  but  really,  what  you're  doing  is 
working  me  a  great  wrong.  Fve  got  to  leave  town  this  very 
day  because  he  must  not  be  aroused.  What  do  you  want  of 
him  anyway?  What  are  you  trying  to  do  to  him?  Why 
are  you  having  him  come  here?     Oh,  Mr.  Governor  .  .  . 

Prefect.     Come,    Signora    Frola,    don't    worry,    don't 


230  RIGHT   YOU   ARE!  [Act  III] 

worry.  I'll  see  you  by  and  by  and  explain  everything.  You 
just  step  out  now,  won't  you? 

Am  ALIA.  Please,  Signora  Frola  .  .  .  yes,  that's  right! 
Come  with  me! 

Signora  Frola.  Oh,  my  dear  Signora  Agazzi,  you  are 
trying  to  rob  me  of  the  one  comfort  I  had  in  life,  the  chance 
of  seeing  my  daughter  once  in  a  while,  at  least  from  a 
distance!     (She  begins  to  weep)   . 

Prefect.  What  in  the  world  are  you  thinking  of?  We 
are  not  asking  you  to  leave  town.  We  just  want  you  to  leave 
this  room,  for  the  time  being.  There,  now  do  you  under- 
stand ? 

Signora  Frola.  But  it's  on  his  account,  governor  .  .  . 
it's  on  his  account  I  was  coming  to  ask  you  to  help  him !  It 
was  on  his  account,  not  on  mine! 

Prefect.  There,  there,  everything  will  be  all  right. 
We'll  take  care  of  him.  And  we'll  have  this  whole  business 
settled  in  a  jiffy. 

Signora  Frola.  But  how  .  .  .  how  can  I  be  sure? 
I  can  see  that  ever}'body  here  hates  him.  They  are  trying 
to  do  something  to  him. 

Prefect.  No,  no,  not  at  all!  And  even  if  they  were, 
I  would  look  after  him.     There,  there,  don't  worry,  don't 


worry 


Signora  Frola.  Oh,  so  you  believe  him?  Oh,  thank 
you;  thank  you,  sir!  That  means  that  at  least  you  under- 
stand ! 

Prefect.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  I  understand,  I  understand! 
And  I  cautioned  all  these  people  here.  It's  a  misfortune 
that  came  to  him  long,  long  ago.  He's  all  right  now !  He's 
all  right  now! 

Signora  Frola.  .  .  .  Only  he  must  not  go  back  to  all 
those  things. 


[Act  III]  RIGHT    YOU   ARE/  231 

Frefect.  You're  right,  you're  quite  right,  Signora  Frola, 
but  as  I  told  you,  I  understand! 

Signora  Frola.  Yes,  governor,  that's  it!  If  he  compels 
us  to  live  this  way — well,  what  does  it  matter.  That 
doesn't  do  anybody  any  harm  so  long  as  we're  satisfied,  and 
my  daughter  is  happy  this  way.  That's  enough  for  me, 
and  for  her!  But  you'll  look  after  us,  governor.  They 
mustn't  spoil  anything.  Otherwise  there's  nothing  left  for 
me  except  to  leave  town  and  never  see  her  again — never, 
not  even  from  a  distance.  You  must  not  irritate  him. 
You  must  leave  him  alone.    Oh,  please! 

(At  this  moment  a  wave  of  surprise,  anxiety,  dismay}, 
sweeps  over  the  company.  Everybody  falls  silent  and  turns 
to  the  door.     Suppressed  exclamations  are  audible,) 

Voices.    Oh!    Oh!    Look!    There  she  is!    Oh!    Oh! 

Signora  Frola  {noticing  the  change  in  people,  and  groan- 
ing, all  of  a  tremble).  What's  the  matter?  What's  the 
matter  ? 

{The  company  divides  to  either  hand.  A  lady  has  ap- 
peared at  the  door  in  back.  She  is  dressed  in  deep  mourn- 
ing and  her  face  is  concealed  with  a  thick,  black,  impenetrable 
veil) . 

Signora  Frola  {uttering  a  piercing  shriek  of  joy).  Oh, 
Lena!     Lena!    Lena!     Lena! 

{She  dashes  forward  and  throws  her  arms  about  the  veiled 
woman  ivith  the  passionate  hysteria  of  a  mother  who  has  not 
embraced  her  daughter  for  years  and  years.  But  at  the  same 
time  from  beyond  the  door  in  the  rear  another  piercing  cry 
comes.     Ponza  dashes  into  the  room). 

PoNZA.     No!     Julia!     Julia!     Julia! 

{At  his  voice  Signora  Ponza  draws  up  stiffly  in  the  arms 
of  Signora  Frola  who  is  clasping  her  tightly.  Ponza  notices 
that  his  mother-in-law  is  thus  desperately  entwined  about 
his  wife  and  he  shrieks  desperately). 


232  RIGHT    YOU   ARE!  [Act  III] 

PoNZA.  Cowards !  Liars !  I  knew  you  would !  I  knew 
you  would!     It  is  just  like  the  lot  of  you! 

SiGNORA  PoNZA  {turning  her  veiled  head  with  a  certain 
austere  solemnity  toward  her  husband).  Never  mind! 
Don't  be  afraid!  Just  take  her  away,  just  take  her  away! 
Please  go  away,  now,  both  of  you!     Please  go  away! 

{Signora  Frola,  at  these  words,  turns  to  her  son-in-law 
and  humbly,  tremblingly,  goes  over  and  embraces  him). 

SiGNORA  Frola.  Yes,  yes,  you  poor  boy,  come  with  me, 
come  with  me ! 

{Their  arms  about  each  other  s  waists,  and  holding  each 
other  up  affectionately,  Ponza  and  his  mother-in-law  with- 
draw through  the  rear  door.  They  are  both  weeping.  Pro- 
found silence  in  the  company.  All  those  present  stand  there 
zvith  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  departing  couple.  As  Signora 
Frola  and  Ponza  are  lost  from  view,  all  eyes  turn  expect- 
antly upon  the  veiled  lady.  Some  of  the  women  are  weeping). 

Signora  Ponza.  And  what  can  you  want  of  me  now, 
after  all  this,  ladies  and  gentlemen?  In  our  lives,  as  you 
see,  there  is  something  which  must  remain  concealed.  Other- 
wise the  remedy  which  our  love  for  each  other  has  found 
cannot  avail. 

Prefect  {with  tears  in  his  eyes).  We  surely  are  anxious 
to  respect  your  sorrow,  madam,  but  we  must  know,  and  wc 
want  you  to  tell  .  .  . 

Signora  Ponza.  What?  The  truth?  The  truth  is 
simply  this.  I  am  the  daughter  of  Signora  Frola,  and  I  am 
the  second  wife  of  Signor  Ponza.  Yes,  and — for  myself,  I 
am  nobody,  I  am  nobody  .  .  . 

Prefect.  Ah,  but  no,  madam,  for  yourself  .  .  .  you 
must  be  .  .  .  either  the  one  or  the  other. 

Signora  Ponza.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  sir!  No,  for 
myself  I  am  .  .  .  whoever  you  choose  to  have  me.  {With- 
out removing  her  veil,  she  proudly  casts  a  sweeping  glance 


[Act  III]  RIGHT    YOU   AREl  233 

around  at  the   company,  and  withdraws.      They   all  stand 
looking  after  her.     Profound  silence  on  the  stage). 

Laudisi.  Well,  and  there,  my  friends,  you  have  the 
truth!  But  are  you  satisfied?  Hah!  hah!  hah!  hah!  hah! 
hah!  hah! 

Curtain. 


NOTE  TO  "RIGHT  YOU  ARE!" 

A  slight  adaptation  has  been  introduced  into  Signora  Frola's 
explanation  of  her  son-in-law's  mania.  Act  I,  p.  184,  beginning 
"No,  look,  look,  not  that  .  .  .  etc."    The  Italian  text  reads: 

Signora  Frola.  No  guardino  .  .  .  guardino  .  .  .  Non 
e  neanche  lui!  .  .  .  Mi  lascino  dire.  Lo  hanno  vcduto — 
e  cosi  forte  di  complessione  .  .  .  violento  .  .  .  Sposando,  fu 
preso  da  una  vera  frenesia  d'amore  .  .  .  Rischio  di  distrug- 
gere,  quasi,  la  mia  figliuola,  ch'era  delicatina  .  .  .  Per  con- 
siglio  dei  medici  e  di  tutti  i  parenti  anche  dei  suoi  (che  ora 
poverini  non  ci  sono  piii) — gli  si  dovette  sottrarre  la  moglie 
di  nascosto,  per  chiuderla  in  una  casa  di  salute  .  .  .  ecc." 

A.  L. 


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